


Harry Potter and the Resurrection Veil

by Katia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Bisexual Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Desi Harry Potter, Drama, Embedded Images, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Gay Draco Malfoy, Groundhog Day, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Oblivious Harry Potter, Romance, Slash, Slow Burn, Time Loop, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, image descriptions included, well basically canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2020-04-07 13:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 108,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19086283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katia/pseuds/Katia
Summary: "Sectumsempra" changed everything. Caught in an unending loop of the day he tried the Prince's spell, Harry is able to learn more about Voldemort's Horcruxes and Draco's task. As he lives out the same day again and again, struggling to figure out why time is repeating, Harry discovers more within the walls of Hogwarts than he ever could have imagined.





	1. Sectumsempra

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter illustrations may be partly cut off on mobile. Image descriptions are at the end note of each chapter.  
> Also - this fic is cross-posted by me as SpinnersStart on ff.net.

 

Harry Potter pushed open the door to the girls’ lavatory.

Seemingly unaware anyone had entered, Malfoy stood in front of one of the lavatory mirrors, gripping the sink to steady himself.

“Don’t. Don’t . . . Tell me what’s wrong . . . I can help you . . .”

Moaning Myrtle? Though she was out of Harry’s view, he heard her voice gently drifting through one of the stalls.

Malfoy shook his head. “No one can help me. I can’t do it. I can’t. It won’t work . . . and unless I do it soon . . . he says he’ll kill me . . .”

Shock cut through Harry. Malfoy was crying—actually crying—tears streaming down his face into the sink. It wasn’t for show, it was different from what he’d seen before. So the boy Myrtle mentioned she had been talking to must have meant . . . As though the realization struck him too, Malfoy took a shuddering breath, then looked up into the splintered mirror to see Harry staring at him.

Malfoy spun around, drawing his wand. Instinctively, Harry pulled out his own. Malfoy’s hex missed Harry by a hair, shattering the lamp on the wall beside him. Harry lurched sideways, thought _Levicorpus!_ and flicked his wand, but Malfoy blocked the jinx and raised his wand to cast another—

“No! No! Stop it!” Moaning Myrtle’s pleas echoed loudly around the tiled room. “Stop! _Stop_!”

There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry exploded. Harry preferred not to injure Malfoy if he could help it; he attempted a Leg-Locker Curse that backfired off the wall behind Malfoy’s ear, shattering the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who screamed loudly. Water poured everywhere, causing Harry to slip and fall to the floor as Malfoy, face contorted, cried, _“Cruci—”_

_“SECTUMSEMPRA!”_ bellowed Harry from the floor.

Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest as though Harry had slashed him with a sword. He staggered backward, collapsing onto the waterlogged floor with a splash that nearly concealed a sickening thud, his wand falling from his limp right hand.

“No—” gasped Harry. Struggling to keep his balance on the slick tile, he got to his feet and rushed to Malfoy, whose hands reached clumsily toward the gashes through his shirt, face shining as red as the blood that streamed from his chest. “No—I didn’t—” Harry’s mouth went numb, a high-pitched sound filled his ears, and he fell to his knees beside Malfoy, who shook uncontrollably as the blood spread through the water around them like flames. Remorse was instantaneous, and all Harry could think was: _I didn’t mean to. I never wanted this to happen. How could the Prince . . . Why would he . . . Why would I . . . ?_

Moaning Myrtle let out a deafening scream. “MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!”

The door burst open behind Harry and he looked up, terrified. Snape, his face livid, had run into the room. Pushing Harry roughly aside, he knelt over Malfoy, then drew his wand and traced it over the deep cuts in Malfoy’s flesh, muttering an incantation that sounded almost like song. The flow of blood eased; Snape wiped the residue from Malfoy’s face and repeated his spell, closing the wounds.

Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away, horrified by what he had done, barely aware of Moaning Myrtle’s wails above them, nor the blood and water that had soaked through his clothes.

Once Snape had performed his countercurse for the third time, he helped Malfoy into a standing position, though the boy was barely conscious. “You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that. Come . . .” He supported Malfoy across the bathroom, turning at the door to say, icy rage barely contained, “And you, Potter—you wait here for me.”

Harry obeyed; it took all of this mental capacity to process his surroundings, much less consider leaving. He stood up slowly, trembling, and looked down at the wet floor. Although the blood had diluted in the water, the room seemed to glow with the intensity of the original deep red of the wounds in Malfoy’s skin. Everything faded together: the white of the tile and the red flood, the white of Malfoy’s skin and the garish cuts. Myrtle’s moaning was reduced to a hum, insignificant in comparison to what Harry failed to process.

Snape returned ten minutes later. “Go,” he said to Myrtle, and she closed her mouth, finally, and swooped back into her toilet, leaving a gaping silence behind her.

Harry gripped his arm to keep it from shaking. “I didn’t mean it to happen. I didn’t know what that spell did.”

Snape ignored this. “Apparently I underestimated you, Potter. Who would have thought you knew such Dark Magic? Who taught you that spell?”

“I—read about it somewhere.”

“Where?”

“It was—a library book. I can’t remember what it was called—”

“Liar,” said Snape through his teeth.

Harry’s mouth went dry. He knew what Snape was about to do and he was no more successful than usual at preventing it. The bathroom seemed to shimmer before his eyes, and as hard as he tried to stop it, the Half-Blood Prince’s copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ floated hazily to the forefront of his mind.

And then he was staring at Snape again, in the midst of the wrecked, soaked bathroom. He stared into Snape’s black eyes, praying that Snape had not seen what he feared, but—

“Bring me your schoolbag and all of your schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them to me here. Now!”

There was no use arguing. Harry turned at once and splashed out of the bathroom. Once in the corridor, he broke into a run toward Gryffindor Tower. Most people were walking the other way; they gawked at the sight of him, drenched in water and blood, and he ignored the questions they fired at him as he ran past.

Harry felt stunned; it was as though a beloved pet had become rabid. Why in Merlin’s name had the Prince copied such a spell into his book? And what would happen when Snape saw it? Would he tell Slughorn how Harry had been achieving such good marks in Potions all year? Would he confiscate or destroy the book that had taught Harry so much—the book that had become a sort of guide and friend? Harry could not let that happen . . .

“Where’ve you—? Why are you soaking—? Is that blood?” Ron stood at the top of the stairs, looking bewildered at the sight of Harry.

“I need your book,” panted Harry. “Your Potions book. Quick, give it to me—”

“But what about the Half-Blood—”

“I’ll explain later!”

Ron pulled his copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ out of his bag and handed it over; Harry sprinted off past him and back to the common room. He grabbed his schoolbag, ignoring the stunned looks of several people who had already finished their dinner, threw himself back out of the portrait hole, and hurtled down the seventh floor corridor.

He skidded to a halt beside the tapestry of dancing trolls, closed his eyes, and began to walk. _I need a place to hide my book . . . I need a place to hide my book . . . I need a place to hide my book . . ._

After walking three times up and down in front of the stretch of blank wall, the door to the Room of Requirement finally appeared. Harry flung it open, hurried inside, and slammed it shut.

He gasped. Despite his haste, his panic, and his fear of what awaited him back in the bathroom, he could not help but stand frozen in awe.

The Room of Requirement had grown to the size of a large cathedral, high windows sending shafts of light down on what looked like a small city. The stacked “buildings” were composed of what Harry knew must be objects hidden by generations of Hogwarts students. There were skinny alleys and wide roads bordered by teetering piles of broken and damaged furniture, perhaps stowed away to hide the evidence of mishandled magic. There were thousands upon thousands of books, undoubtedly banned, graffitied, or stolen, flanked by winged catapults and Fanged Frisbees, some with enough life still in them to hover halfheartedly over the mountains of other forbidden items; there were chipped bottles of congealed potions, hats, jewels, cloaks; there were what looked like dragon eggshells, corked bottles whose contents still shimmered, several rusting swords, and a bloody axe.

Harry ducked into one of the many alleyways, turned right past an enormous stuffed troll, ran a short way, took a left past the broken Vanishing Cabinet, pausing at last beside a large cupboard that seemed to have had acid thrown at its blistered surface. He pried open one of the cupboard’s creaking doors—it had already been used as a hiding place for a long-dead caged creature, a skeleton with five legs.

Harry stuffed the Half-Blood Prince’s book behind the cage and shut the door. He hesitated, heart racing, scanning the clutter. Would he be able to find this spot again among all this junk? Did it even matter, if Snape read his mind again? Grabbing the chipped bust of an ugly warlock from on top of a nearby crate, Harry stood it on top of the cupboard where the book was now hidden. He perched a dusty wig and a tarnished tiara on the statue’s head to ensure it would be recognizable, then sprinted back through the alleyways of discarded objects as fast as he could manage, back to the door, back out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him.

Trading in his copy of Potion-Making didn’t fool Snape. He could barely voice a proper defense before Snape was telling him, “I think that you are a liar and a cheat and that you deserve detention with me every Saturday until the end of term. What do you think, Potter?”

“I-I don’t agree, sir,” said Harry, refusing to look into Snape’s eyes.

“Well, we shall see how you feel after your detentions. Ten o’clock Saturday morning, Potter. My office.”

On top of single-handedly dooming the Gryffindor Quidditch team, he was chewed out by McGonagall, had lost the one thing keeping him afloat in Potions, and was haunted by the image of Malfoy, blood-stained and nearly dead.

That night, Harry turned over in his bed, stomach growling. He had skipped dinner and the lack of food had caught up with him, making his thoughts even more miserable and foggy. Eventually, he fell asleep, wishing with every inch of himself that he had not used the Prince’s curse . . . 

* * *

 

For a brief moment upon waking the next morning, Harry forgot the events of the previous day. Just as quickly, the lead-weight guilt hit him. He forced himself out of bed only because the brightness of the room indicated he didn’t have much time left before breakfast. Normally, he was able to wake up when the others did, but his vivid dreams had forced him to sleep longer.

Dean, Seamus, and Neville had already left, but Ron’s school bag still sat next to his bed.

Just as Harry latched on to the faint hope that Ron would be able to make him feel better, seeing as he had waited for him, the door opened. Sure enough, Ron was able to act as though nothing had changed.

“Morning. I grabbed you some toast and a banana, since you missed breakfast. Hermione’s waiting downstairs,” he said, and Harry smiled despite himself; at least he could rely on Ron to act as though he hadn’t spoiled everything.

Despite Ron and Hermione’s pleasant attitude, Harry lost himself in swirling dread about his situation. Because of this, it took him several minutes to notice they were walking in the wrong direction. “Hang on, where are we going? The greenhouses are the other way.”

He had stopped, so Ron and Hermione slowed their pace. “We have Charms.”

“No, we had Charms yesterday.”

“Harry, it’s Thursday.”

“No, yesterday was Thursday.”

Hermione blinked at him, concerned. “Are you ill? Has someone Confunded you?”

“I’m fine, I suppose things could get worse.”

“What do you mean?”

Harry scowled. “I’m no closer to finding out what Malfoy’s up to, I’m banned from Quidditch—”

“You’re what?” Ron seemed more shocked than upset.

“How could you forget?” Harry knew he had been waiting for an outlet to his frustration, and Ron’s gaping expression nearly set him off. “Ron, quit acting like you don’t know. Hermione, you were furious about it just last night!”

Hermione shook her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Harry. Look, maybe if you finish eating, that will set your head straight. Breakfast is the worst meal to skip, you know. If someone Confunded you, it would be best to wait it out . . .”

Now thoroughly annoyed, Harry let them lead the way to Charms, imagining how good it would feel to be right about something and not wallow in his mistake.

But when they walked into Charms, sure enough, the class was there as it had been the day before.

Harry froze in his tracks. Had he imagined the previous day? Was he dreaming now? Were they playing a practical joke? Perhaps he was wrong about the date, and yesterday was Wednesday, and the trauma had him mixed up about class . . . But then, why would Ron and Hermione forget the day before? Stiffly, he walked to their usual table and sat down. He waited until Flitwick finished speaking before casting a Muffling Charm around them.

He swallowed, trying to stay calm. “Today already happened.”

Ron, who had abandoned his work to listen, met Flitwick’s eye and picked up his wand. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, yesterday was Thursday, too. But only I seem to know.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “How is that possible? Are you sure it wasn’t a dream, or a vision, or something?” Clearly, it was something she had not heard of before.

“I don’t know. It didn’t feel like a dream. This doesn’t feel like a dream, either.” Harry looked around the room for something he could use to prove his point. “Oh! In a few minutes, Seamus will blow something up.”

They waited—Harry could feel Ron and Hermione’s disbelief radiating on either side of him—but nothing happened. Impatient, Harry thought of something else to prove he was right. “Flitwick sneezes. And it’s very loud.”

As though on cue, Professor Flitwick let out a bellowing sneeze, causing several students to leap in their seats and Seamus to implode the ball he’d been attempting to wandlessly levitate.

Harry’s skin went clammy. It had not seemed like a complete reality before, but now, meeting the shocked expressions of Ron and Hermione, he felt the beginning signs of panic. He explained everything that had happened the previous day, but hid the Prince’s involvement by saying he repeated one of Malfoy’s own curses.

“. . . What should I do? What if I’m stuck like this forever?”

Hermione glanced at Ron, then said, “You won’t be, Harry. There isn’t magic powerful enough for that. Besides, I assume this is a chance for you to not hurt Malfoy. Maybe once the day ends things will go back to normal.”

Harry shrugged. If he was stuck, was it even worth it that he no longer casted Sectumsempra? He’d rather face the consequences of that than be forced to live out the same day over and over again.

As they packed up their things, Hermione said, “We should head to the library to see what we can find.”

Ron groaned. “Maybe we should just talk to Dumbledore. He’d know what’s going on. For all we know he could’ve done something.”

Hermione was about to agree when Harry cut in, “If I tell him, then I’ll have to explain what I did to Malfoy. And if he can fix time right away, then he’ll remember. Although . . . if we can’t find anything, I won’t have a choice.” He knew he would not be able to avoid telling Dumbledore about the curse, and would have to include the book. The longer he could postpone that conversation, the better.

Since using a Time-Turner in third year, Hermione was familiar with where to find mentions of time travel in the library. She pulled books off the shelves and delegated several large texts to each of them, saving the largest stack for herself.

The trio was mostly silent as they flipped through pages upon pages of text, only occasionally finding connections to time travel. Every now and then, one of them would open their mouth to say something, then sigh as they realized the information wasn’t useful. After an hour, as they were nearly about to give up, Ron said, “How about this? It says every Time-Turner uses an Hour-Reversal Charm, which is ‘highly unstable.’”

“Can I see?” Hermione took the book from him and scanned the passage. “Ah, of course!” She turned the page, quickly looked through a few more, then handed it back to Ron. “When I used the Time-Turner, I learned that there is an Hour-Reversal Charm contained in the device. That book says that before a device was invented to control time travel, it was rare that anyone succeeded in going back in time, and when they did, it was . . . messy. My thought is, if it wasn’t contained properly, maybe something like this could happen. Unfortunately—and I know this from third year—the vast majority of information about Time-Turners is protected by the Ministry. It’s highly classified, and the charm is likely beyond difficult to replicate, even if we found the instructions.”

“So . . . what does that have to do with me?” Harry knew it wasn’t a good sign that he was already confused.

“Maybe the spell that’s affecting you is similar to the Hour-Reversal Charm. As far as we know, you’re the only one who’s aware that we’ve traveled back in time. Also, although you went back more hours than I was allowed to travel, it’s still only a day.”

“How can I change things, then? With the Time-Turner, it didn’t matter what we changed, it was how it always happened.”

Hermione chewed her lip. “It must be much more powerful. From what I’ve read, if you go back a short time, you are in a . . . a sort of fixed loop. You can’t change anything, like you said. But longer than a few hours, and you affect the future. Depending on when the day started over for you, it might be twenty-four hours. I suppose it could be worse, because you don’t know what would have happened the next day if you had hurt Malfoy using Dark Magic. And that could be what’s responsible for time resetting: Dark Magic, or something about the castle.” She glanced at the pile of books, and Harry could tell she doubted the likelihood of figuring it out solely with research.

Ron sighed. “Maybe someone messed up, and things will be back to normal soon.”

A thought struck Harry. “What if it was Voldemort?”

“He would have to be in Hogwarts, I assume.”

“But he’s got Malfoy, hasn’t he?” The more the idea settled in Harry’s mind, the more certain he was.

“What reason would he have to cast such a spell?”

“There’s a lot about his plans we don’t know. It could have to do with his Horcruxes, or killing me.”

Hermione looked doubtful, but there was little else to guess. She wanted to turn back to the books—surely one of them had an answer—but Ron was growing impatient and Harry had all but given up. She sighed. “If you’re not going to do research, are you going to talk to Dumbledore tomorrow?”

“Fine. Yes, I will.”

That night, Harry lay back in his bed, nerves washing over him in waves. If nothing else, he had managed to avoid confrontation with Malfoy. The best he could do was hope everything would go back to normal.

 

When Harry awoke the next morning, Ron was shuffling loudly out of bed. “Hey, Ron, what day is it?”

“Hm? Wha—? S’Thursday.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah? Wait, or is it Friday already?”

Seamus thew his covers aside and pushed past them. “It’s Thursday.” His tone was steely, likely a combination of being woken up and lingering bitterness over Harry’s decision about the Quidditch team.

Harry glared at his retreating figure, then looked back at Ron. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

After Charms and once more explaining everything to a bewildered Ron and Hermione, Harry consulted the Marauder’s Map, saw that Dumbledore was in his office, then set off for the Headmaster’s Tower.

In other years, other months, even, Harry may have been more reluctant to come to Dumbledore for help or advice. But he was propelled by three things: he had spoken with Dumbledore only a few days before, this seemed beyond something he could figure out by himself, and he was already growing impatient with the repetition of daily events.

“Sir?”

The Headmaster, who had been at the Pensieve, sat down at his desk. “Harry, how are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Harry could not conceal his worry, and upon Dumbledore’s piqued attention, began to explain. “Sir, something’s happened. And I don’t know how. I woke up this morning, and the morning before that, and—it’s been the same day. Yesterday was Thursday, and the day before that as well. What I mean is, I’m stuck in time. And only I seem to have noticed.”

Wordlessly, Dumbledore waved his good hand, and a cabinet to his right opened. Harry watched as a small wooden box levitated to rest gently on the Headmaster’s desk.

“What is that?” As he asked, Dumbledore opened the box and pulled out a familiar gold-plated device.

This Time-Turner had six rings—more than Hermione’s Time-Turner—and its center rings spun very quickly, making a soft whirring sound.

“This is an ability I did not know the Time-Turner had; it seems to be detecting that time is no longer functioning as it normally should.”

“Is it causing time to repeat itself?” Harry sat down and peered at the device.

“I do not believe so. In fact, I imagine it and any other surviving Time-Turner is entirely unusable during the loop. The Time-Turner I invented is a complex instrument, but a situation of this nature . . . It would take me weeks to test if it is responsible.”

“So what, then?”

“The Time-Turner is likely only an indicator that time has been disturbed. I believe the true cause could be a jinx, or a curse.” Dumbledore paused. “Similar to the jinx on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.”

“Hang on . . .” Harry thought back to the memory he saw of Voldemort’s visit to Hogwarts. “So Voldemort jinxed the—?”

“I believe he did. Perhaps he was not in control and it was caused by an emotional reaction, perhaps it was fully intentional. Until he dies, the jinx will persist.”

“So . . . did Voldemort do this, too?”  
“I cannot be certain. I have never known time to repeat itself in the castle in all the years since he was last at Hogwarts, though it is possible it evaded my detection. There have also been numerous students powerful enough to cast such a jinx since Tom Riddle left school, or students who were capable of bringing such magic into Hogwarts.” Dumbledore paused, gaze magnetized toward the consistent spinning of the Time-Turner’s rings. “I think you should investigate who created this time loop, assuming it continues. That will be the key to uncovering how it was created, and ending it, if necessary.”

“How long will that take?”

“A few weeks, perhaps, at the most.”

“What if it takes longer? What if I’m stuck like this?”

Dumbledore looked to the Pensieve, then back to Harry. “Focus on ending the loop, for now. Feel free to return to my office in the future. If you must prove to me the time loop exists, simply tell me to look at my Time-Turner.”

Harry left Dumbledore’s office feeling deeply discouraged. With his initial efforts to figure out the time loop through research proving unsuccessful, he couldn’t see how he would fix things on his own.

Hermione and Ron tried their best to reassure him.

“It could sort itself on its own,” said Ron, a placating suggestion that already seemed familiar.

“Ronald, really. We have to try something.” Hermione did her best to look confident. “If nothing we do is permanent, then it won’t affect us to spend time researching rather than doing homework.” This was apparently more to convince herself than the boys.

“Yeah. And at least I can remember whatever we find out. If I forgot everything each morning, I’d be stuck like this for sure.”

Ron’s eyes grew wide. “What if time is always repeating and no one knows?”

Hermione almost began a retort, but instead stopped to consider it. “Well . . . with the Time-Turners affected, I hope there’d be some kind of sign. Instead, what about this: what if time repeats constantly and always only one person ever knows? That’s the motivation to use magic, people constantly fixing their mistakes, trying to change things . . .”

They were silent, thinking.

Harry ventured an idea. “Dumbledore said ‘numerous’ students could’ve created the loop at some point in Hogwarts.”

Ron frowned. “And how many thousands of students has this school had?”

“Under five hundred thousand. That’s only an estimation, no one really knows because records were destroyed in the sixteenth century.” Sensing their lack of interest, Hermione continued, “Anyhow, we could start with that. Is there anyone at school right now who could’ve done it?” She fished in her bag for a piece of parchment and dipped her quill in ink, apparently unconcerned what she wrote would disappear the next day.

“Draco Malfoy.” Harry waited to see if Hermione’s reaction would be better than the day before and was pleased when she wrote it down. When he added, “Or anyone in Slytherin,” she set her quill on the table and looked at him, stern.

“What?”

“We don’t know if this loop is malicious, or even if it was created on purpose.”

“But Dumbledore brought up Voldemort.” Harry looked to Ron for support.

“Harry’s got a point.” Ron glanced at Hermione, apologetic.

“More than just Slytherins cast jinxes, if that’s what this is. And there are more powerful students than Draco Malfoy. A few, at least.” Hermione listed off a number of students at Hogwarts she knew were smart, or had once made a show of their magical abilities. Her impression of them seemed to revolve around how their talent compared to hers.

Harry read and re-read the list while she wrote, mentally crossing out the names he thought were unlikely. When Hermione wrote her own name, he scoffed.

“What? I could’ve done it by accident! And as far as we know, I’m the only one who’s time-traveled inside Hogwarts in recent history.”

“Then why would it affect me?”

“I don’t know. Someone else could be reliving their day, too. If they are, you have to find them.”

Once complete, Harry couldn’t help but see the list in order of likelihood, with Malfoy’s name at the top spot. “I’ll use the Marauder’s Map, see if there’s any unusual behavior.” He bit back what he nearly added— _See what Malfoy’s been doing in the Room of Requirement._

Exhausted by the amount of information he had to process, and anxious to fall asleep sooner to see if time had resumed normally, Harry retired to bed early. Restless, he fought for a comfortable position, finally ending up on his side, facing his nightstand. His wire-framed glasses, blurred into a reflective smudge by his eyesight, were placed next to his Charms textbook, and the familiarity of this arrangement sparked an idea. He placed his glasses on top of the book; that way, when he woke up, he would immediately know if time had reset.

The door to the room opened, and Ron (Harry could make out a smudge of orange) entered, abandoning his effort to be quiet once he saw Harry was awake.

“We’ll figure it out,” said Ron, crossing to his dresser. “You figured out how to get Slughorn’s memory, and at one point that seemed impossible, right?”

Harry nodded vaguely, closing his eyes again. The situation seemed more _nebulous_ than impossible, where possibility and impossibility were distant considerations in the wake of what had yet to be determined.

 

The next morning, Harry’s glasses were in their usual place.

When Ron prodded him to wake up and get ready or they’d be late, Harry mumbled something about not feeling well, and Ron could go on without him. Dean, Seamus, and Neville had already left, so no one saw when he retrieved the Marauder’s Map and spread it out on his bed.

He felt a bit godlike with this ability to see everyone at once. Like turning over a large rock, Hogwarts opened up to him, revealing the writhing, unknowable life underneath. Tiny dots scurried across the parchment, attached to names he could have heard once or a thousand times, some clumped in pairs or groups, others alone. 

As his eyes began to drift with boredom, he was struck with an expected albeit all-consuming loneliness. His father’s fingers had surely traced the same sprawling lines as his had, mind racing with possibilities. The map symbolized a simpler time for both of them, when James’ biggest worry was getting away with a prank rather than getting away with defying Voldemort, and Harry’s biggest worry was whether his life was threatened by an escaped convict rather than a resurrected, genocidal wizard.

What would his father do with the map and the freedom to explore without consequences? Harry’s attention wandered to the Slytherin dungeon. Surely some Slytherin in the castle was up to no good, or he could find evidence of Snape’s true loyalty . . . 

By ten, Harry finally put the map aside. Over an hour of studying the pages, and his eyes’d had enough. He glanced around the room for an idea of what to do, but felt restless just from the idea of reading. Instead, he got ready for the day so he could join Ron and Hermione for lunch before Transfiguration. It was unusual for him to miss class for being sick, especially for a morning class where sleeping in was an impossible luxury.

“Should you see Madame Pomfrey?” asked Hermione for the fifth time.

“I’m _fine_. I had a headache—not my scar hurting, mind—and it’s gone now.”

They took his word for it. Going to class seemed pointless, as did explaining his situation to Ron and Hermione over and over again, unless he had new information to run by them. He could tail Malfoy, or ask Myrtle if she’d seen anything, possibly follow the students Hermione had listed as possible culprits. 

For the time being, he pretended to work on homework in the common room while actually thinking about how best to approach fixing time.

“Ah, finally.” Ginny collapsed on the couch next to them, sighing.

Harry’s nerves jumped in surprise. “Long day?” She had tied her hair back, and over the course of the day, little wisps had escaped, remainders of whatever whirlwind she’d been caught up in. Of everyone he had no longer disappointed since time repeated, he was happiest about Ginny.

“It’s been a long _week_ , and I have to study for the O.W.L.s next month on top of essays . . . Fortunately, I saw Dean on my way here, and he looked way better, so that cheered me up. I was tired of seeing him moping around.”

“That was rather sudden,” said Ron, scoffing. “Yesterday I heard him tell Seamus it’d take months to get over you.”

“Maybe he rebounded. That’s what it takes, in the end.”

Harry stared down at his hands, wondering if dating Ginny after Dean would only be temporary so she could get over him. By her cheeriness after the breakup, though, it was unlikely she needed a someone to revive her spirits.

“What about Lavender?” Ginny considered Ron, who was sharing a textbook with Hermione—their knees nearly touched as they propped the book open between them.

“She’s not over it, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, with a level of indifference that was almost cruel.

“If I know you at all, Ron, she’ll get over you before you know it. Not that Hogwarts is overflowing with eligible bachelors.”

Harry hoped she couldn’t see the heat rising to his face—thankfully, Ron’s indignation served as a distraction.

“Aren’t there other people you can annoy?” grumbled Ron, blocking the pillow she attempted to kindly return to him. Harry imagined their summers must be like this, Ginny chucking Quaffles at Ron as he did his best to guard the goalposts.

“Why, and miss out on annoying my favorite brother?” She stood and ruffled his hair before looking back at Harry. “Talk to you lot later, then? I’m off to bed, I’m going to finish my essay in the morning.”

“Yeah, talk—see you soon,” replied Harry, stumbling over the words, too aware of Hermione’s barely contained smirk in the corner of his eye.

“Drop it,” he said once Ginny was out of earshot.

Hermione blinked at him, feigning innocence. “I didn’t say anything!”

Harry raised an eyebrow, then busied himself in his textbook, which he realized had been open to the same page for the past hour. He looked over at Ginny, who stood at the foot of the staircase, laughing with some of the girls from her year. Maybe living the same day over again for a couple weeks wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Image description: Digitally illustrated cover for “Harry Potter and the Resurrection Veil.” At the top of the cover, “Harry Potter” is in the original typeface from the American editions of the series, below which is “and the Resurrection Veil” in thin, hand-drawn lettering. In the center foreground of the cover, late-teenaged Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter stand almost back-to-back in a dark forest, their illuminated wands raised. Draco, to Harry's left, looks worried, while Harry looks determined. Draco has almost shoulder-length hair and wears a long, posh blue cloak with a snake embellishment on his sleeve. Harry, depicted as of Indian descent, has some stubble and wears a green bomber jacket with dragon detailing and jeans. The entire cover is eerie and cast in cool colors.]
> 
> [Second image description: Photoshopped chapter illustration for the first chapter of this fic, titled “Sectumsempra.” At the far left is the original chapter illustration from the eponymous chapter in "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince," featuring the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement along with the stone bust on top of which Harry places the Lost Diadem. This illustration repeats, gradually tilting to the right until it flips around to mirror the original on the far left. In this mirrored version, the diadem is no longer on top of the stone bust. Cut-out objects and pieces from future "Half-Blood Prince" chapter illustrations seem to fall from this mirrored version. These pieces include the cliff outside Voldemort's cave, Ginny Weasley holding textbooks, and the Astronomy Tower.]


	2. The Time Loop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strategy forms. This may not be as easy as Dumbledore told Harry . . . too bad the film "Groundhog Day" doesn't exist in this universe to help him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The note at the end of the chapter has the image description for this chapter's illustration.

 

Pretending to be sick once more, Harry wondered whether he could easily get his hands on some Wizard Wheezes next time in order to be more convincing. He slept in a bit longer, then got ready for the day and threw on his invisibility cloak.

As unpleasant as it would be to talk to Moaning Myrtle again, there was a good chance she had witnessed someone cast a curse in the bathroom. It was only a matter of convincing her to talk, especially since he hadn’t visited her in a while.

Harry remembered he hadn’t checked the map to see if the bathroom was occupied, so he peeked under each of the stalls before taking off his cloak. “Myrtle? You there? It’s Harry.”

There was a pause, and he thought he heard the faint sound of rushing water. “Myrtle?”

Bursting out of one of the stalls with a splash, Myrtle flew over his head and slowly floated down, frowning at him with her arms crossed.

“Hello, Harry. It’s been ages since you visited me.”

“I know, and I’m really sorry. I’ve been busy.”

“Oh, of course . . .” She sighed, gliding past him. “Why would you bother finding time for me?”

“I’m here now, aren’t I? Look, I’m on an important mission, and I thought you could help.”

Myrtle’s expression soured. “You didn’t come to just talk, Harry Potter.”

“Maybe not, but this is important. You want to help, don’t you?”

“Favors. That’s all people want. _Myrtle, this boy likes me, what should I do? Myrtle, my parents don’t understand me. Myrtle_ this and _Myrtle_ that—and then I fix their problems and they abandon me . . . and end up happy . . . and I’m stuck here, forgotten . . .”

Harry fidgeted, unsure what to say to make her feel better. He was guilty of what she accused him, but she was rather annoying, and a bloody ghost, so what could he do about it? “C’mon, don’t look at it like that. I mean, you’re changing people’s lives. Making people feel better.” An image of Malfoy at the basin flashed before his eyes. “It’s important.”

“Well . . . I do try to make a difference when I can . . .”

“Then it would make a big difference if you could help me. Do you remember anyone coming in here to try and reverse time? They may have had a device, or said something strange, maybe.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Harry. I’ve only been here a few decades, but still . . . many people come to this bathroom, crying to me about their issues. I only remember the cute ones,” added Myrtle, before she broke out into giggles. 

“Has Draco Malfoy tried to reverse time?”

Myrtle cocked her head. “What, because he’s cute?”

“Because he’s—?” The last word Harry associated with Malfoy was _cute._ “No, because he visits you. Surely you’d have seen him—maybe only recently.” If this had been a lengthy and arduous project, Kreacher or Dobby would have had some hint about it. But they hadn’t mentioned Malfoy's visits to the girls’ bathroom, so it was likely a blind spot. After all, what useful information could be gained from following someone into the bathroom?

“I may have seen him in here before. He didn’t cast any spells, though.”

“Are you sure? Myrtle, it’s really important that you remember.”

“He hasn’t! You and your friends are the only ones who have used this bathroom for anything magic in a long time . . . Remember thatterrible potion you made? Before then, the red-headed twins came here for their projects, and before them, a girl with pink hair, and before her, too many to keep track of.” She watched him as his eyebrows stitched together with frustration. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more, Harry.”

“It’s alright. Thank you anyway.” His inquiry was too broad; once he knew more, she may be more useful.

The next day, Harry decided to eavesdrop on Malfoy’s conversation with Myrtle. He only had an approximate guess of when Malfoy would come to the bathroom based on when he had walked in on him originally.

He slipped silently into the bathroom to avoid Myrtle’s detection, and waited nearly half an hour loitering by the sinks before Malfoy swept in. Harry saw his composure crack with every step; he must’ve been barely holding it together until he could be alone. “Myrtle?”

Myrtle floated through one of the stall doors. “Draco! Are you okay?”

As soon as she asked him this, he broke, covering his face with his hands, shoulders heaving.

Myrtle drifted closer, her desire to touch him plain as she lifted her hands slightly from her sides. “I’m sorry, Draco . . . I’m sorry.”

He heaved a shaking breath and looked at her. From where he stood, Harry could see Malfoy’s face in detail, the red-rimmed eyes, the glisten of snot below his nostrils, the crinkles in his chin. “Th-there’s nothing to be s-sorry for. It’s all on me . . .”

“There has to be some way I can help. If I could only . . .”

Malfoy didn’t seem to hear her, and instead gripped the sink to steady himself. “Sometimes I think about ending it . . . It would be easier if I were gone.”

Harry’s stomach knotted. Did Malfoy mean what he thought he meant?

Moaning Myrtle’s voice drifted gently through one of the stalls. “Don’t say that. I’m here for you, I’ll make it better. Don’t cry . . . Don’t . . . Tell me what’s wrong . . . I can help you . . .”

Malfoy’s entire body shook. “No one can help me. I can’t do it. I can’t. A-and unless I do it soon . . . he says he’ll kill me . . .”

“He can’t scare me, Draco. There’s nothing he can do to hurt me.”

_“If you could help, I would tell you._ But you can’t.”

“Isn’t there anyone . . . ?”

“I have someone, he’s hardly even trying . . . He’s useless.”

Was Malfoy talking about Snape? Harry wondered why Malfoy thought he was useless, considering Snape was a Death Eater, too; surely he could use any help he could get.

“What about your friends?”

Malfoy shook his head, fresh tears flooding his eyes. “No. No, they can’t know. I-I am supposed to bear it alone. That’s what h-he wants. I would only be putting everything at risk. Y-you are the only one I can talk to . . . And even then . . .”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Draco . . .” She placed a hand on his shoulder and as the palm of her hand disappeared into him, he shivered. “If I can’t help you with your mission, surely there’s something I can do . . . someone I can haunt, perhaps?”

Malfoy seemed to stir from his despair. “Y-you can haunt someone?”

“I could spy on someone, if I was careful. But if the person realized and told Dumbledore, he would find a way to cast me out—”

“Harry Potter.”

Myrtle gasped, scandalized, though it was merely for dramatic effect because Malfoy continued as though she already knew of his deep loathing for Harry.

“I need to find out if he knows about my plans. Or at the very least how close he is to finding out. He has this magic cloak—he can become invisible . . .”

“Then will you tell me what it is that upsets you? The responsibility that causes you so much pain?”

“No.” Malfoy’s tears started again as he was reminded of the secret he had to keep. Harry supposed he would also resent that he had to go to Myrtle, of all people. Or rather, of all spirits. “It’s highly unlikely that Potter knows anything of importance . . . but he could be following me around, or trying to eavesdrop again . . . I don’t know if I’ve let something slip, given him too many clues.”

Myrtle let out a low whine. “It’s wrong to watch him when he’s unaware. What if I witness something inappropriate?” She giggled, and Malfoy's eyes flashed—not with anger, but with triumph.

“Will you help me, then?” he asked, dropping back into a more pitiful tone.

Myrtle glided to the left, sighing. “Yes. Though I would hate for him to catch me. If he came here, that would be much easier.”

Malfoy rubbed his temple. “Not for me.” He was breaking again. “It’s—it’s like my mind is empty. I can’t concentrate, I c-can’t think, and when I do anything it’s as though it’s not even me. Everything keeps piling on, and I’m not sure how much m-more I can take . . .”

Malfoy had worked himself up so much that he hardly seemed to hear when Myrtle said, “I’ll take care of it. I don’t want you to worry.”

Anger stirred inside Harry. While Malfoy’s crying seemed genuine, it was obvious he was manipulating Myrtle by exaggerating his desperation.

“What I said earlier—it was a lapse in judgement. I don’t want to die,” he said so softly Harry almost missed it. “At least I have you. Without you, I think I wouldn’t have the strength—the strength to continue.”

Myrtle beamed, though the look was a bit crazed. “If I’d had you when I was alive, I wouldn’t have wanted to die, either. Oh, Draco. You have to believe in yourself. You’re stronger than you think.”

This was blatant flattery, Harry thought, as nothing Malfoy had ever done could be considered strong. He was the antithesis of strength.

“If I were strong, I would have completed my task by now.”

“Or are you strong to not want to complete it?”

Malfoy covered his face with his hands. “I can’t afford to question him—to question myself . . . it only makes it harder.” 

“Oh, Draco . . .” said Myrtle, watching helplessly as Malfoy cried, more quietly and hoarsely than before. He was unable to muster tears, but not because it was merely for show, rather because he looked exhausted. For the first time, watching him, Harry found his throat constricted. _Merlin’s sake, do I actually feel sorry for him?_

“I should go,” Malfoy said finally. He splashed his face with water and dried his face with the front of his cloak. For a moment, he studied his face in the mirror, tugging on the bags under his eyes, then adjusted his tie. His gaze flickered to where Harry stood—he had accidentally exhaled through his mouth. Nevertheless, Malfoy decided it was nothing, whispered “Goodbye, thank you,” to Myrtle, and walked out of the bathroom.

Without thinking, Harry hurried to follow him.

Malfoy walked quickly until he was well out of the bathroom’s range, then slowed his pace, sighing. By straightening his back, pulling his face into a slight scowl, and cracking his knuckles, Malfoy transformed back into his usual self. Still, anyone who knew him well enough would be able to see through this posturing.

Without warning, Malfoy stopped in his tracks.

_Step_.

Harry froze, but his footfall had been pronounced. Soundlessly, he took a step to the side, and another, as Malfoy stared at the place he’d heard the sound.

“Potter, if you’re there,” whispered Malfoy, “you’re dead.” He raised his wand. _“Petrificus Totalus!”_ The spell shot through the air and down the corridor, fizzing out before it hit the wall. Gritting his teeth to keep from swearing, Harry continued slowly in the opposite direction. If he could make it to where there were others, sneak past with them . . . 

_“Accio cloak! Revelio!”_ shouted Malfoy, looking wildly about. Nothing happened. Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy, then said in a low voice, _“Expelliarmus!”_ The spell sent Malfoy’s wand flying, and Harry bolted, ignoring Malfoy’s enraged threats. He ran up to the seventh floor, through the portrait hole, and up to the boys’ dormitory. His heart raced; Malfoy’s suspicions since he had discovered him on the train were stronger than he had assumed. Did anyone else know he had an invisibility cloak? Crabbe and Goyle must know, and possibly more Slytherins. Then again, Malfoy had known for months and the rumor hadn’t reached him, so maybe he had kept it to himself.

The Marauders’ Map showed Malfoy wandering the halls, path erratic and repetitive. After a half an hour of this, Pansy Parkinson met up with him and led him to the Great Hall in time for the last ten minutes of dinner. Harry skipped the meal under the pretense of illness, thinking it best to avoid Malfoy for the remainder of the day.

An hour later, Harry’s stomach growled. Ron and Hermione were in the common room, but he wasn’t in the mood to join them and repeat the same conversations he’d been having over and over.

“Dobby?”

With a loud crack, the house-elf appeared as summoned, smiling up at him from beside his bed. “Harry Potter, how are you? Dobby—Dobby has nothing new to report—” Having said this aloud, Dobby’s smile fell and he looked about to find something with which to hurt himself.

“It’s okay! Dobby, it’s fine, I didn’t call you here about that. Have you been sleeping like I told you to?”

“Yes, sir, four hours a night!”

“Only four? Is that enough?”

“Oh, it’s plenty, Harry Potter. Dobby has never slept so much in all his life.”

“Er, great. You can sleep more, if you want. I don’t know how much house-elves are supposed to sleep, but however much you need.” He continued through Dobby’s thanks, “Listen, were there leftovers after dinner? Would it be any trouble to get me some food from the kitchens?”

“Not trouble at all! Dobby will be back soon.” He Disapparated, leaving Harry to think. If he only had a day to track Malfoy and figure out what he was up to, how could Dobby help? And was there anything he should have asked before that might help him?

No more than a minute later and Dobby reappeared, balancing a plate full of meat and potatoes in one hand, a cup of juice in the other.

“Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Anything for Harry Potter. Just say the word.”

“Have you eaten? Would you like some of this?” 

Dobby shook his head so that his ears flapped back and forth. “Dobby is allowed to eat as much as he wants in the kitchens.”

“Okay, suit yourself.” After going many nights with only scraps for dinner or having food withheld as punishment in his childhood, he could manage skipping a meal every now and then. Since he was making up for his stunted growth, however, his body protested whenever he became too hungry before bed.

“Did you know that Malfoy talks to one of the ghosts here?” Harry asked between bites.

“No, does he? Dobby hasn’t seen him talk to any.”

“Right. He does it in the girls’ bathroom, so I thought maybe you didn’t want to follow him.”

Horror spread across Dobby’s huge eyes at the chance he had missed something, so Harry quickly talked him down. “It’s not a big deal. He just goes there to cry about his problems. Like today, he visited Moaning Myrtle and started sobbing and talking about some task he had to do.”

At the house-elf’s intensified confusion, Harry set his plate down in case he would have to suddenly restrain him. “You seem surprised.”

“The—the Malfoy boy only cries when he’s alone. He hasn’t said anything to anyone worth mentioning to you, Harry Potter. I failed you . . .”

Harry leapt from his bed to grab Dobby’s arm, keeping him from grabbing a book from the desk. “You haven’t failed me! He only talked vaguely about his situation, having to complete a task. It wasn’t anything useful.” That was a white lie, since as a result of discovering Malfoy in the bathroom, Harry now knew two things: that Malfoy didn’t want to complete the mission Voldemort had tasked him with, and that Myrtle was a potential source of information.

“Harry Potter needn’t lie,” said Dobby, voice choked with anguish.

“I’m not! You have my word. Look, let me ask you something. Has Malfoy ever come close to telling someone? Or if you had to guess, who might know about his plans?”

Dobby was returning to his senses, so Harry picked up his plate and continued to eat.

“Young Draco Malfoy’s friends are not like Harry Potter’s friends. He is separate. He doesn’t want them to get close.”

Harry nodded slowly as he chewed. “I think I understand what you mean. Out of his friends, though, who do you think he would tell about his plans? Assuming he hasn’t already.”

“The girl he’s sometimes with—Pansy Parkinson. She knows what to say to him, his large friends don’t.”

“Crabbe and Goyle? I don’t imagine they would.” Maybe he ought to follow Pansy’s movements for a day. Crabbe and Goyle were mainly silent, keeping to grunts as a means of communication, whereas Pansy was a notorious gossip. If anyone would let something slip about Malfoy, it was her. “Thank you, Dobby.”

“No trouble at all. Should I follow Pansy now?”

“You can in a few days. Take a break, you’ve earned it.”

“Oh, thank you, Harry Potter. I will see you soon!” With a crack, Dobby Disapparated, and Harry was left alone with his mashed potatoes.

* * *

After two days that were uneventful apart from a few cheery conversations with Ginny, Harry decided to try speaking to Myrtle again.

“Hello? Myrtle, are you in here?”

Moaning Myrtle rose out of the stall, clearly expecting Malfoy. Upon seeing Harry, her expression soured slightly. “It’s about time you visited me, Harry. I thought we were friends.”

Harry stifled a scoff. This again. “We are! Er, just—school has been very stressful for me. But I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Oh, I’m sure it has been hard for you, Harry.” Myrtle’s eyes sparkled behind her glasses, and she was the picture of sympathy. “I hear things, you know, so I can imagine what you’re going through . . .”

“Really? What kinds of things?”

“You-Know-Who coming back, Cedric Diggory dying, and just last year, at the Ministry . . ."

Harry swallowed, resolving himself to keep his composure. “Yeah, all of that. And this year, someone has been attacking students.”

Myrtle nodded. “I heard about the attacks. Makes me think about my own death, how life is fragile . . .”

“Er, right, I’m sorry.”

She let out a long sigh and sunk beneath the tiled floor, rising out of one of the stalls a moment later. “You figured out who it was last time, didn’t you? You were very heroic, Harry.”

“Thanks. I had help, though. My friends—” He stopped himself. Best to stay on track. “Anyhow, I think Draco Malfoy has something to do with it.”

Myrtle blinked at him through her thick glasses. “Oh? You think so because you dislike him.”

“I have plenty of evidence. And if he keeps at it, everyone’s lives could be in danger.”

“That’s not so bad. It’s rather dull here without any danger.” Myrtle giggled and floated closer to him.

“Fine, then my life’s in danger.”

Myrtle pouted. “You’re not the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you, Harry.”

“I’m only trying to help. Don’t you believe I can do it? I killed the monster that killed you all those years ago.”

“So you want to stab the next thing in your way?”

“No! I don’t want to kill anyone, if I can avoid it.”

She seemed to believe him, and came closer, eyes narrowed. “Do you know who’s been visiting me?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

“Draco has kept me company, but you haven’t been to the girls’ bathroom in a long time . . .”

“I’ve been busy! And I’ll have plenty of free time if you help me. We won’t have any time together if I’m dead.”

“How would you spend that free time, Harry?”

“There’d be time to visit you, of course, and—and maybe the baths again, if I knew the password.”

Myrtle bit her lip. “Don’t pretend you would, you’re trying to trick me!” With a mournful sigh, she flew back into the toilet.

Cursing himself, Harry decided to try it again the next day.

“You won’t believe me.”

“I will! I will!” Myrtle floated closer.

“After so long without visiting you, I was ashamed. I thought you hated me now and wouldn’t want to be bothered.”

“Oh no, Harry, of course I want you to see me. I am upset, but two years for me is more like two months. And I’m used to people leaving me.”

Harry reached deep within himself to further his deceit. “To make it up to you, I want to come visit you every month. Er, at least once.”

“You will? You promise?”

He cringed at her unabashed eagerness. “Cross my heart. If I don’t show up for a while, then it’s because something bad’s happened, or I am too busy trying to figure out who’s attacking people to see you.”

“It’s hard to say no to you, Harry.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “If I help you, then it has to be our secret.”

“Of course.”

“That boy, Draco Malfoy, talks about many things with the Slytherin girl Pansy Parkinson. I remember back in your second year, you made a special potion to change your appearance . . .”

“Myrtle, that’s brilliant! Er, though I already knew he talked to Pansy about being a—well, that he talked about things that he doesn’t with just anyone. I think they’re going out, it makes sense.”

“No, they’re not! He doesn’t fancy her. He doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Just . . . guessing.”

Of course Myrtle would want to think there wasn’t anything romantic between Pansy and Malfoy. At least, he would tell Myrtle there wasn’t in order to gain her loyalty.

“He has a lot of responsibility. You’re not the only one in danger, Harry.”

“So you’re saying he’s not the one cursing people, then.”

Myrtle flew further away, sighing. “I know you don’t want to help him, so I won’t tell you anything more.”

Unsatisfied with the information he received from Myrtle, Harry tried every day for a week to find out more about what she knew. The most he learned was that Malfoy had not yet told her his exact plans or anything about his involvement in the two attacks on students that year. Harry was certain she hadn’t lied about it because she seemed to desperately want to win his favor by helping.

Over the next week, Harry shadowed Pansy while using the cloak, choosing different hours each day so he could pass undetected and slowly create a composite of her May 8th.

Pansy would leave the Dungeons in the morning with Blaise Zabini fifteen minutes before the start of breakfast and say quietly to him something like, “This is the second week in a row he’s missed meeting up. You’re up later than I am, has he been getting enough sleep?”

“He goes to bed early more often than not,” said Zabini. “I believe he’s been using a sleeping draught. Perhaps the dosage is too high . . ."

“Right, could be.” She spent the rest of the morning whispering rumors and critique to Zabini and other Slytherins about whomever they passed from the other Houses. This is when the day began to diverge; Harry’s timing and interactions with others seemed to have a ripple effect on the school.

While he had first assumed Pansy was unaware of Malfoy’s bouts of indifference toward her, Harry realized from the private moments of gloom and hurt after being slighted that she was above all else determined to act as though things were normal. Most days, she rested her head on Malfoy’s shoulder when they were chatting after lunch. He wormed out of it by saying she was hurting his shoulder, and she would sit up straight and glance around to check if anyone had seen.

There were snippets of conversation that made it seem she didn’t know many details about Malfoy’s task: “Draco, if there’s anything you want to tell me . . .” and “Have you asked Snape for better potions?” and once a whispered, “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do whatever you need.” By passively observing, the most Harry discovered was how much she didn’t know.

So, for another week or so, Harry returned to his normal routine and went through the motions of class, conversations, and occasional investigations. As he reached the three week mark, he was hit by a fresh wave of panic. It may have been nineteen days, or twenty days, or twenty-two days, as he had lost an exact count. Before he decided whether it would be a tell-Ron-and-Hermione-he-was-trapped day or a pretend-to-be-sick day, Ron made the choice for him.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?” Ron crouched at the side of Harry’s bed so the others wouldn’t hear.

“Not quite,” Harry replied, about to feign a cough, when Ron said, “Something else is wrong, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded. “Can you wait for the others to leave?”

Ron took a deliberately slow time getting ready for the day, until the others had gone.

“For three weeks now, I’ve been trapped in the same day. I don’t know why, but when I wake up, it’s the same day all over again.”

Twenty minutes later, he was reciting the same spiel to Hermione, who fired a series of questions at him about what she had or hadn’t suggested before.

“Have I told you to spend a day interfering as little as possible? Not talking to anyone?”

“I’ve tried that.”

“What about the reverse? You should ask for advice from as many people as you can, surely someone will have a clue or you’d find out if there’s anyone like you.”

“You haven’t suggested that yet, usually you just tell me to go to Dumbledore.”

“And this is the first time you’ve listed off so many things I’ve already said, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I ought to try that again in the future. So who should I talk to?”

“I’d talk to the professors. All of them. Someone has to know something that would help.”

Later that day, Hermione agreed, adding, “In general, you should talk to different people each time the loop resets.”

Over the next few days, Harry spoke with professors, explaining his situation and asking for their advice. Trelawney and Snape he decided to put off until he really felt he had no other choice. McGonagall was his biggest hope after Dumbledore, so he wanted to hold off talking to her for a few more weeks, if he was trapped that long. In order of who ended up being the least to most helpful, he talked to Professors Binns, Sprout, Burbage, Sinistra, Flitwick, Babbling, and Slughorn. Before the time loop, he could have remembered the order in which he spoke to them, but now his mind organized them as they mattered.

He hadn’t expected much from Professor Binns, but talked to him anyway. “You’ve been teaching at Hogwarts a long time.”

The professor stroked his translucent chin. “Yes, I have. However, the attempts to alter time at Hogwarts, few of which I have heard proved successful, have tended to last no more than a few minutes.”

“So someone’s tried to reverse time before?”

Binns shook his head as though a fly were circling him. “I cannot remember.”

Professor Sprout was similarly unhelpful. “Have you told the Headmaster about this?”

“Yes, I have. I’ve spoken with other professors, too, and they’ve given useful advice, though nothing that has ended the loop so far.”

She studied him, then looked around the greenhouse. “If I had some kind of plant that could reverse the effects of a time-altering spell, I would use it. Unfortunately, such a plant has yet to be found. Given the rarity of the situation you’re in, nobody has had an incentive to research a cure.”

Professor Burbage, the Muggle Studies professor, startled Harry with her concern, eyes shining as she offered to make him tea. By the time their drinks had cooled enough to drink, she offered her perspective. “Muggles are surprisingly interested in time travel and perhaps more ignorant to the consequences as wizarding folk. In a recent popular Muggle film series, a boy trusts an old man who sends him back in time, causing the boy’s mother to fall in love with him—”

“With the old man?”

“No, the boy.” She wrinkled her nose. “And given how far back he goes in time, it has a significant effect on their life. _Return to the Future_ , I believe?”

“Mhm. I think I’ve heard of it . . .” A poster appeared in the haze of his memory, though because he had seen very few films in his life, he hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time. “So what, you’re saying students raised in a wizarding home would be less likely to try it than Muggleborns?”

“At the very least, Muggleborns may romanticize it. The practice is highly restricted and largely forbidden in wizarding society. Luckily, you haven’t gone more than a day back in time, and it was unintentional, so chances are you won’t face any punishment from the Ministry if they learned of it. . .”

Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy professor, stood and paced after he explained everything to her. “It is curious that you are the only one who is experiencing the time loop . . .”

“As far as I know.”

“In Astronomy, we have studied the alignment of the stars and the clarity of the sky. How do you feel when you study space?”

“I dunno. Small.”

“Explain what you mean by small.”

“Well, like it doesn’t matter what I do. And that doesn’t feel true when I’m not looking at something bigger than myself, bigger than all of us.”

“I understand what you mean. The constellations are more reliable than we are as individuals and groups, constantly colliding with one another. Even when you test the properties of people up close, study their behavior, it can also significantly affect the outcomes of reality. 

“Similarly, the conditions of any spell are worth studying in order to determine its effects, and vice versa. Two days ago, there was a new moon, and two days from now, Mercury will be at aphelion. These conditions are out of our control, and by studying them, we can learn about the properties of the universe.”

“In a way, I suppose I have been using what I learned in Astronomy.” If his actions were permanent, he would not have continued to say, “I have a map that charts the movements of students in Hogwarts. It shows their names, where they are on the grounds.”

“Then you should be wise to study it properly.” She gave him a long look that made him shrink a bit with guilt. “After this loop ends, I hope you will no longer use the map.”

Professor Flitwick asked for Harry’s story a second time so he could take notes about certain details. “The closest charm to what is affecting you is the Hour-Reversal Charm.”

“Aren’t Time-Turners charmed with it?”  
“Precisely. Tell me, what is your understanding of the difference between a charm and a curse?”

“Er, a charm changes something, and a curse is Dark magic?”

“Close. A charm changes the properties of its target, while a curse causes harm to or controls its target. A charm can have negative effects, while Dark magic necessitates pain or sacrifice to cause negative effects on the target, positive results for the user. An Hour-Reversal Charm takes the caster back in time, while the world remains the same. A curse is not as clear. I feel perfectly conscious, but normally there is a chance this could all be happening in your head. Although would a curse make other people dismiss the chance we are created and controlled by it . . . ?” He drifted off into a thoughtful silence.

“Professor, what would the negative effects be?”

“That is the trouble. If you do not know what the positive effects are, then it will be difficult to ascertain.”

When Harry entered Professor Slughorn’s office, the man looked up from his desk and set his quill down. “Harry, my dear boy, how are you?”

“Fine, Professor. There’s something I have to ask you about . . .” He launched into an explanation about what had happened so far.

“I see. Do you have any evidence that Malfoy may be behind it?”

“Not exactly. What do you think?”

“The curse must be fueled by something. A sacrifice would be required for a spell this powerful.”

Harry thought of the Horcruxes. If it cost a life to split one’s soul, was this costing him time?

“A sacrifice could take many forms. You may not know until it is over. As to whether You-Know-Who is behind this, we must hope he is not, because if you are the target, this would be designed to weaken you, if not drive you to madness.”

Professor Babbling, professor of Ancient Runes and Ancient Studies, was deemed the most helpful by Hermione when they debriefed what Harry had learned. “I can write you a note to check out a book on ancient time travel practices. I forget the full title, but for short it is called _Turning Time._ Hopefully you will find what you are looking for it.”

After he asked Babbling to rewrite the note three days in a row, Hermione had spent a sufficient amount of time reading _Turning Time: A Newly Compiled History of Time Travel and Time Travelers,_ they finally had answers to some of their questions. First, that the distinction between Dark and Light magic is not so clear cut in every culture, if it existed at all; second, time travel is possible through different kinds of magic; third, unintentional time travel is not new; fourth, no one in recorded history has existed in the past for longer than five days; fifth, lack of control in the amount of time one is sent back indicates a lack of emotional stability or ignorance to the art of time travel; and finally, there is no single proven set of laws that time-magic follows.

“We can probably rule out You-Know-Who casting the spell himself. It’s still possible that someone with lesser abilities did it for him.”

Harry leaned back in his chair. “This is all pointing toward Malfoy, you realize that?”

“It does look bad . . . Though you did say he hasn’t said anything to Myrtle or his friends about time travel.”

“Not yet.”

She glanced at him, then flipped through the book’s pages. “If we’re assuming this magic would have been triggered by pain or sacrifice, injuring Malfoy could have done it.”

“What, he wanted me to hurt him?”

“Could be—Oh!” Her finger landed on a section titled _Time and space_. “Have you tried leaving Hogwarts?”

“Not yet.”

“The curse took effect in the school. Perhaps if you got far enough away, it would stop. If I remember correctly, Ursula Spencer did that when she was doing illegal experiments with time travel that backfired.”

“As in, I should leave the country?”

“Try going to Ireland, maybe, or France. Wherever is easiest.”

“Good idea. I’ll ask Hagrid.”

Harry was right to brace himself for a rib-crushing hug and rock cakes at Hagrid’s, as he received both after running through the events of the past month. Then he told him that Hermione had suggested leaving the country.

“That’s a good idea, an’ I’m glad yeh came ter me. If this continues, jus’ know yeh can visit me, right?”

“Thanks, Hagrid.”

“Easiest way out is yer gonna wan’ ter take the Beinn Bus ter the coast, it’ll cost yer a fair amount, mind, then take a Portkey tha’ will get yer to Dublin.”

After memorizing Hagrid’s more detailed instructions, Harry set off on the Beinn Bus from Hogsmeade, which took two hours to reach the southwest coast of Scotland. At the small outpost off of the bus he bought a Portkey service across the Irish Sea to Dublin, checked into an inn for the night, and flopped onto the bed. He wanted to sleep right away, but was too anxious to slow his brain down. Getting up, he sat at the tiny desk in the room, tried to force himself to write with the quill and ink. Hours passed, until midnight passed, then it was almost one, and still he couldn’t sleep—

The walls began to melt. His desk folded away into nothing as everything around him zipped away, tucked into some alternate reality, leaving him lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling as the early dawn filtered into the dorm room. Shock only lasted a moment before frustration swept over him. _It doesn’t matter what I do._ Judging by the dark stillness of the room, it was a full day before, sometime after midnight.

He thought back to Malfoy, leaning over the sink, ready to give up. How long would he have to be stranded in time before he broke like that? At least Malfoy knew what his task was—Harry was ignorant to what he was supposed to do _and_ how to escape. _If I died in the loop, would I die permanently, or wake up in bed?_ He wasn’t yet willing to try something so drastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Image description: Chapter illustration for this chapter, “The Time Loop.” Digitally illustrated, black and white, with some ghostly blue hues. There are two nearly identical Moaning Myrtles next to one another, both saying in a speech bubble, “Tell me what’s wrong… I can help you…” Myrtle is depicted in a cartoonish style and is as described in the books: somewhat stout, with acne on her face. She wears glasses. She looks concerned and her arm is stretched out toward Draco, who is not pictured.]


	3. Crucio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are desperate. It's about time Harry had some consequences for his actions in the loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an image description for this week's chapter illustration in the notes at the end of the chapter.

For the first time since the time loop began, Harry decided to confront Malfoy in the bathroom in the hopes that repeating the fateful day’s events, but without casting Sectumsempra, would restore time. He waited until he heard the line “He says he’ll kill me . . .” before letting Malfoy see him.

Malfoy spun around, drawing his wand. Ready for an attack, Harry had already pulled out his own. Malfoy’s hex missed Harry by a hair, shattering the lamp on the wall beside him. Harry lurched sideways, thought _Levicorpus!_ and flicked his wand, but Malfoy blocked the jinx and raised his wand to cast another—

“No! No! Stop it!” Moaning Myrtle’s pleas echoed loudly around the tiled room. “Stop! _Stop_!”

There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry exploded. Still unwilling to resort to a spell as violent as Sectumsempra, he instead attempted a Leg-Locker Curse that backfired off the wall behind Malfoy’s ear, shattering the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who screamed loudly. Water poured everywhere, causing Harry to slip and fall to the floor as Malfoy, face contorted, cried, _“Crucio!”_

Fiery pain consumed him. He knew it was not real, that the burning did not mean he was actually consumed in flame, but every inch of him leapt in pain and fear, until he wasn’t sure if he was actually screaming or if it was his body that emitted some inhuman noise . . . 

After what must have been two minutes, though he was unable to know for certain, it stopped, leaving Harry to tremble on the ground.

As Myrtle continued to cry for help, Malfoy was sobbing again, breathing in choked gasps as he paced.

_You have to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain—to enjoy it . . ._ echoed dimly in his mind.

The door flung open with a _bang!_ that seemed to echo like a clap of thunder from miles away. As Harry faded in and out of consciousness, someone’s hands gripped his arms, turned him onto his back, touched his face.

“What have you done?” Snape’s voice was aimed away, up at Malfoy.

“P-Potter attacked me!”

Snape let go of Harry and inhaled sharply. “The Cruciatus Curse. Draco, see me in my office. You have made it exceedingly difficult for me to protect you . . .”

The world faded to black.

Sometime later, Harry opened his eyes to find himself in the Hospital Wing. He lay in bed for a few minutes before Madam Pomfrey came to check on him and saw he was awake.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Potter?”

Harry still felt on edge, but the pain was gone. “Fine.”

“I will let Professor Snape know you’re awake.”

If he weren’t in a time loop, Harry might have protested, but he had grown accustomed to letting things play out, since he knew he had nothing to lose.

Snape swept into the room, expression cold and severe.

“Professor, I didn’t start anything. I walked in on Malfoy in the bathroom, he was crying and—”

“You must have done something to provoke him, Potter.”

Harry glared at him. “Is that what you think? Well, I just told you what I did. He was embarrassed, or whatever, and we fought, and—”

“You allowed him to perform an Unforgivable Curse?”

“I didn’t _allow_ him, obviously! Look, I know you wouldn’t let him get in any trouble, so I’ll tell Dumbledore myself.”

Snape’s lip curled. “The Headmaster has more important concerns than settling a petty dispute.”

“You’re only saying that so I won’t tell him anything.”

Snape glared at Harry. “Go ahead. I can assure you, he will not compound the punishment beyond the detention I gave Draco.”

“Why are you protecting him? I know he’s planning something, and you’re helping him!” Harry would normally withhold all of his suspicion, but he hoped it would get Snape to crack and confess to something, and it felt good to vent. “I found out Malfoy’s a Death Eater.”

Either Snape was truly unfazed, or he was expertly controlling his surprise. “Oh? You think so? That is a serious accusation, Potter, you wouldn’t want to start rumors . . .”

“I saw his Dark Mark once. He was showing his friends, and I was spying on him,” Harry lied. “So I wouldn’t say it’s a rumor.”

Snape colored. “When was this?”

“It was . . . last week. In the seventh floor corridor.”

“Bluffing or not, you should not meddle in what you do not understand.”

Harry scoffed. “Of course you wouldn’t care. Dumbledore let you work here and you’re a Death Eater.”

“You truly are as simple-minded as your father. If you continue to assume your powers of perception are infallible, then you will only place yourself in more needless danger.”

“You’re wrong. I can see things for how they are. I was right about Malfoy and Umbridge—”

“Convincing you of your misguidedness is not my concern. We are done here. Tell Dumbledore what you will.”

After Snape left, Harry began thinking about how he could get information from him. After all, of everyone at Hogwarts, Snape knew the most about the Dark Arts. Unfortunately, if Harry had learned anything from his years at Hogwarts, it was that Snape’s hatred of him made it impossible to ask him for help.

A few days after Malfoy used the Cruciatus Curse, Harry’s desperation began to set in, more pronounced than he had felt in a while. He was lonely, frustrated, and bored. How long would it take—hearing the same words, going to the same classes, and existing in a stagnant world—for him to go mad? 

Professor Sinistra’s insight about the conditions of time magic gave Harry the idea to relive May 8th as he had experienced it before the time loop. As much as he didn’t want to use the Prince’s curse again, especially considering in all likelihood the plan would not work, he would have to rule the idea out eventually. The day passed by smoothly at first, with Ron and Hermione oblivious that anything was off about him. That evening, he waited in the corridor until the right moment, then entered the girls’ bathroom carefully, waiting for Malfoy to catch a glimpse of him in the mirror—

Malfoy spun around, drawing his wand. Ready for an attack, Harry had already pulled out his own. Malfoy’s hex missed Harry by a hair, ricocheting off the wall. Harry lurched sideways, thought, _Sectumempra!_ and waved his wand.

Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest as though Harry had slashed him with a sword. He staggered backward and collapsed, head hitting the tiled floor with a terrible thud. Blood flowed from his torso, mixing with the trickle of blood from his skull.

_“Draco!”_ wailed Myrtle, and she swooped to his side, letting out a low whine, hands uselessly slipping through his torso.

Harry’s heart dropped. There hadn’t been enough of a struggle, meaning Snape probably hadn’t heard them. And for some reason, Myrtle was only sobbing, not screaming. Harry rushed to the bathroom door, opened it and peered around—but Snape was nowhere to be seen.

Trying to remain calm, he returned to Malfoy’s side and traced the wounds with his wand, repeating the sing-song incantation Snape had used. The blood slowed to a stop before flowing out again at an even faster rate.

Harry swore. Had the cuts opened up further? He reached for the bottom of Malfoy’s shirt, now a deep red color, hesitating briefly at the fear of what he’d done and of wasting any more time, then pushed it up enough to reveal the gashes splayed across his white skin.

Shaking, Harry attempted the incantation again. He tried a different emphasis of the words, hoping it would take.

Blood still flowed.

His vision blurring, Harry tried a different inflection. The blood seemed to continue for a few seconds, but it was only that which had already spilled blooming on the tile. Encouraged, Harry repeated the words, and the skin sealed slightly. After tracing the wounds until harsh scabbed lines remained in their place, Harry rolled Malfoy’s shirt back over his stomach and searched for signs of breathing. Beneath the soaked shirt, Malfoy’s chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly. His face was slack, his eyes closed and mouth ajar.

Harry thought he looked no more than an inch from death.

Malfoy whimpered, kicking in the rational part of Harry’s brain. _The Hospital Wing_. If he levitated Malfoy, they had a chance of getting there in time. As a precautionary measure, he ran back out of the bathroom, tracking blood on his shoes. A group of students, likely first-years, were walking down the corridor.

“Oi! You lot! Get Madam Pomfrey. Quickly!”

The young Hufflepuff girl nearest him gaped at his bloodstained robes.

“NOW!” He stepped forward.

With a frantic “Okay!” the group sprinted in the direction of the Hospital Wing.

Hands shaking, Harry levitated Draco and slowly moved him in the direction of the Hospital Wing. When he was halfway there, it was Snape that appeared, not Madame Pomfrey.

“Sir, it was a blood-loss curse. It ricocheted off a mirror in the bathroom and hit him. I didn’t mean . . .”

Snape stared at him, and Harry could feel the tug of truth worming into the forefront of his mind. _“Liar.”_ He began urgently resealing Malfoy’s wounds, so that the blood dripping onto the floor was only from his robes. “Wait here as I attempt to save the boy’s life.” He whisked down the corridor, Malfoy in tow. As soon as he was out of sight, Harry rushed to Gryffindor Tower to retrieve his Potions textbook.

If Malfoy died, would the time loop continue? Maybe that was the point. It was a fluke Snape had shown up to save him that first day, before the time loop—Malfoy was meant to bleed out on the worn tile floor of the girls’ bathroom. Now as then, there would have been no reasonable justification for his actions, certainly not with Snape advocating for Malfoy, so Harry’s expulsion from Hogwarts was guaranteed. He had only ever been responsible for deaths indirectly: his parents, Cedric, Sirius . . . It made sense that sooner or later he would kill someone directly, using his own wand. After a complete month in the time loop, it would take a murder to free him, only to imprison him again. Would he go to Azkaban? Was there juvenile detention for minors, and if so, what horrible creatures inhabited it?

When Snape returned twenty minutes later, he snarled, “He is alive, despite your attempt on his life, Potter—” He reached as though to grab him by the collar, but was stopped by the book Harry had thrust between them.

“Here it is, sir. My copy of _Advanced Potions_.”

Snape took it slowly, bewildered. “You knew I would ask for this book. Is this a confession?”

Despite Harry’s will to hide his memories, it had little effect. “I’m on a mission from Dumbledore. You can’t know the full details.”

“Oh?” Snape’s features darkened. “You are not in a position to lie, Potter.” How much had Snape seen? He flipped to the inside cover, the inside back cover, and finally the back cover, where _This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince_ had been written. “So this is the key to your inexplicable success in Potions. You have plagiarized the efforts of another student for your own benefit, concealing your mediocrity by deceiving others.”

“That’s not what I’ve been doing! Who says I can’t use the book for tips?”

Snape flipped through the pages until he spotted the scribbled note that had led them here, now. “‘ _Sectumsempra_ —For enemies.’ Was this the curse you used?”

“Yes, sir.” There was no use lying, Snape would see through him.

“ _Malfoy_ is your enemy? You use a mere Disarming Charm against the Dark Lord and yet you used a powerful curse to murder a fellow student?”

“I didn’t want to kill him!”

“And you clearly did not want to open a basic Latin dictionary.”

“I—that’s beside the point! It doesn’t matter what Malfoy does, you’ll keep pretending he’s innocent. I know he’s up to something.”

Snape stared at him, burrowing deeper into his mind. “You will be very lucky if you are not expelled. You have wormed your way out of lesser crimes before, but this—”

“You’ve read my mind, though, haven’t you? It doesn’t matter what you do to me, because time will reset.”

Snape hesitated, and an image of Harry’s first use of Sectumsempra burst forward, followed by Malfoy’s use of the Cruciatus Curse. “You are fooling around with time? If the Ministry knew . . .”

“I didn’t do it on purpose! Even Dumbledore can’t figure out how to fix things. That’s the reason I did any of this, to make time work again. But it backfired. Tomorrow will probably be the 8th again—”

“If you grow accustomed to everything working your favor, Potter, you will make a mistake you cannot erase. Your father was just as arrogant, and where is he now?”

Harry seethed with fury. “Don’t tell me you’re happy he’s dead, or you have no right to be angry about what I did to Malfoy.”

He must have struck a nerve, for Snape finally looked away. “There is not a professor on these grounds who could justify your actions. I will speak with Dumbledore—”

“Tell him to look at his Time-Turner. It’s proof that time is repeating.”

“Your luck will run out, Potter,” replied Snape, then swept down the hall.

That evening, Dumbledore summoned Harry to his office, his whirring Time-Turner set out on desk in front of him.

“Would you have injured Malfoy, had you not known time was repeating?”

“No, sir, not like this. Defended myself, sure, but I only cast _Sectumsempra_ again because I was trying to recreate the events of the day that started the time loop in the first place. And I couldn’t.”

“I cannot blame you for trying this once, Harry, but I advise against trying it again. You do not know the nature of the curse. If it did indeed take the sacrifice of a life to break, you would have a young man’s life on your conscience.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t have been the first.”

“Cedric Diggory’s death was not your fault, Harry.”

Instead of arguing, Harry said, “I understand, sir. If I only knew what Malfoy was up to, why he was in the bathroom in the first place . . .”

“You need not hurt him in the process, Harry. Become accustomed to a behavior or mindset in a controlled environment, and you will find it is difficult to readjust to the real world, similar as the two may be.”

Although Harry was frustrated that he could be lectured for something that ultimately affected only him, he knew there was truth to what Dumbledore and Snape had said. Using Sectumsempra again was out of the question, so he would have to think of new ways to end the loop. For the time being, he decided to visit Malfoy in the Hospital Wing and see if there was anything to be gained by talking to him.

_“Muffliato,”_ whispered Harry, the room too quiet to avoid Malfoy hearing the incantation. He slipped his wand out of his invisibility cloak and said, _“Lumos.”_

Light illuminated Malfoy’s face. Severe red lines crossed his face and neck, winding into the bandages on his chest. Harry knew then that there would be permanent scars etched into his skin if the time loop ended. His fatigue, the eerie light in the room, and his bloodshot right eye compounded Malfoy’s frightening appearance. 

Malfoy’s surprise at the light subsided and he sneered. “Come to fight me while my defenses are down, have you, Potter?” Malice dripped from his words, his eyes narrowed in an attempt to be menacing. “Quite noble of you.”

Harry took off his cloak. “ _You_ attacked _me!_ Anyhow . . . I came to apologize, not fight.”

“Oh, sure, that’s excellent. Ickle baby Potter has to say sorry. Dumbledore sent you, has he? You can choke on that apology. Is this all the Chosen One has to do to fix nearly killing me? You should be expelled.”

“I never wanted to kill you. I had no idea what the spell would do—I had never tried it before.”

“And that excuse fooled the bloody geezer? It’s a pity how utterly weak he is.”

Clenching his fists, Harry stepped closer to the bed. “Get over yourself. No one told me to apologize, apart from this little thing called a conscience. But I suppose you wouldn’t know about that.”

“Watch your mouth, Potter. You forget that could have been you, bleeding out on the bathroom floor.” Malfoy’s chest rose and fell with the effort it took to speak. The curse had taken a toll on him, and he had already been in pain.

“I know. Except you’re not supposed to kill me, that’s Voldemort’s job.” Harry pocketed his wand and sat on the chair next to Malfoy’s bed. To control his anger, he found some relief in picturing Malfoy’s face when he had cried in the bathroom.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you.”

“Believe me, I know.” _Picture the snot dripping out of his nose, the depressing flop of his hair_. “I suppose you can’t tell me why you were crying?”

“Madam Pomfrey!” Malfoy shouted suddenly.

“Don’t bother. I cast a charm so no one will overhear.”

“I will never tell you. I should Obliviate you—” Malfoy began to raise his wand, but Harry disarmed him just in time.

“There’s no point. I wrote down what happened before coming here in case you would.” Lying was quite easy when Harry wouldn’t be held accountable.

Malfoy swore, chuckling to himself as he ran his hands over his face. “Of course you did.” He swore again, but this time he sounded exhausted more than amused. “Just say your bloody apology and get out.”

“I’m sorry. Even though you’re a Death Eater and you’re a godawful person . . . I don’t want you to die. I shouldn’t have hurt you . . . that badly.”

“It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, Potter,” he said shortly.

“Look, you shouldn’t put me in a position where I’m forced to defend myself.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“I never said you were!”

“No, but you think I am. I don’t need you thinking I’m weak because—my stress—it’s just— _you’re_ the one who cried over the ghosts of his parents. You’re the one who lost it over the dementors, over Diggory, the one who’s always whining to your precious Headmaster about your problems. _”_ Coughing suddenly from the strain of speaking, Malfoy tried to catch his breath.

Harry could recount a hundred instances of Malfoy’s most spineless moments. But he’d save them for another day, another circumstance that would lead him to this chair, sitting in the Hospital Wing. “I couldn’t give less of a damn that you were crying, for Merlin’s sake. You didn’t expect anyone to see, I understand. Now that I have seen, I thought you’d want to convince me you weren’t crying over nothing.”

Taking the bait, Malfoy glared at Harry. “It is nothing you would understand.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll understand. Not sure I’ll sympathize, seeing as we’re on opposing sides of this, aren’t we?”

“That is precisely why you ought to save your breath.”

They stared at each other. Without the energy to convey his usual loathing, Malfoy merely managed to look bored. The potion on the nightstand beside Malfoy, probably for restoring blood, was nearly empty, yet Malfoy’s face was bloodless, white as the pillow propping him up.

“In our first year at Hogwarts, you asked to be my friend. Are you that same person? I can’t imagine him crying in the bathroom.”

“Of course not. I have changed far more than you have, and endured more. You’re still the same as that day in Madam Malkin’s. Just as unassuming, emotional, morally righteous—and everything falls into place for you.”

“Fine. Let’s pretend my parents didn’t die, that Sirius Black was still alive, that Voldemort hasn’t tried to kill me nearly every year since I’ve come to Hogwarts. Explain to me why you get a pass for terrorizing the school, for attempting to make my life hell, and crying to the ghost of a teenage girl.”

Hands gripping the covers like they were closing around Harry’s neck, Malfoy shouted, _“Because I have no choice!”_

_“Neither have I!”_

“Yes, you do. You haven’t got parents to dictate you and you haven’t inherited the choices they made. You haven’t got lives resting on your shoulders.”

“No? I have an aunt and uncle to dictate me, I inherited the choice of my parents to fight Voldemort, a choice they gave their lives for. If I can’t defeat Voldemort, many more people will die.” The obvious difference was on which side of the war their circumstances placed them.

A shadow passed over Malfoy’s face. “This is exactly why you could never understand. I cracked under pressure that you would weather with hardly a complaint. You have it easier than me because you are fighting for what you believe in, not purely for the sake of surviving. I cannot say the same.”

“Then why can’t you do something to change that?”

“Would you condemn Weasley and Granger to death because of a choice you made?”

“No, of course not, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Right, you have not been faced with a choice like that before.” The weariness in his features made him look suddenly far older than he was.

Unsure what the parallel was, Harry started to ask who Malfoy meant when Madam Pomfrey’s office lit up. Throwing the invisibility cloak on and quickly casting another Muffling Charm, Harry said, “We’ll continue this later.”

Only, they couldn’t continue it, because time reset the next day. What was the point? Harry no longer regretted casting Sectumsempra on the first day, nor did he regret being kicked off the Quidditch team. If there was some greater purpose, some lesson he had learned to make it worth the consequences, maybe it was accepting what he could not change.

“I don’t regret it,” said Harry, standing in the girl’s bathroom after telling Myrtle to leave him be. “If this curse cares, I don’t regret anything I did. Malfoy lived, didn’t he? It could have been worse—it was an accident.”

That didn’t work either. When he woke up the next day, he smashed his palm down on his glasses, causing them to clatter to the floor, bent and broken. Purely to vent his spite, he was in a pissy mood the entire day, and refused to explain what was wrong to Ron and Hermione. Instead of going to dinner, he went out to the edge of the woods and aimlessly set fire to dead branches, then levitated rocks so they splashed into the Black Lake.

He enjoyed this taste of freedom enough to dedicate the next several days to it, bringing spell books into the woods and practicing until he grew tired and once again became bored with the monotony.

At six weeks in the loop, it was time for him to try something radically different. _Productivity, yes, that will help_ , he told himself, and resolved to get back on track with what he had tried to accomplish at the beginning of the loop. To get the information he wanted out of Malfoy, there was a simple method he could use, a potion to get him to confess to his task, and ultimately help both of them. Of course, Harry had misgivings about using a tactic Dolores Umbridge had herself introduced him to. If nothing else, at least all of this was temporary. It would be like a Potions experiment. Surely the Half-Blood Prince would approve if he tried using Veritaserum.

* * *

_Note: this potion is a highly restricted substance and not for use on others, especially without the drinker’s knowledge. It is NOT guaranteed to reveal the truth, and accuracy will depend on the user’s mental state_ . . . The warning on the vial of Veritaserum went on, descending further into moral ambiguity until the end, when it read outright: _Tolerated only in emergencies, accepted only when the bastard deserves it_. When he failed his first attempt to buy the potion in Knockturn Alley (the shop had a Trace detector to determine his age), he decided to commission Fred Weasley try on his behalf. A 5 ml vial of Veritaserum, the most one could buy at once, cost 15 galleons. The restrictions on the potion only allowed for one purchase of a small amount of potion per six months, though this was easy enough to circumvent in Knockturn Alley and one dose would suffice.

Harry intercepted Malfoy on his way to the girl’s bathroom, body-bound him, and awkwardly smuggled him under his cloak into an unused classroom. He forced the boy’s stiff body into a seated position, then poured the Veritaserum into a goblet filled with water and set it on the table between them. Even though the look in Malfoy’s eyes made him want to reverse the day’s events already, he had to follow through.

_“Muffliato. Religo.”_ Invisible ropes pulled Malfoy tighter to the chair. Harry cast a Drought Hex and pulled off the invisibility cloak before finally unfreezing him.

Immediately, Malfoy tried to ask for water, but his words came out as a pathetic croak. Harry picked up the goblet and tipped it into Malfoy’s parched mouth. Once he had swallowed, Harry lifted the hex.

“What the hell have you done, Potter?” he demanded, face twisted with anger. “You’re going to pay for this.”

Seeing Malfoy struggle only reminded Harry of the time he nearly killed him. To silence the trickle of guilt within himself, he instead thought back to the time Malfoy petrified him and crushed his nose. “I’m sorry, I just need to know what you’ve been planning. Er, so: what have you been planning?”

“I’ve been repairing a Vanishing Cabinet in order to lead a group of Death Eaters into Hogwarts. We are going to kill Albus Dumbledore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Image description: Chapter illustration for "Crucio." Digital illustration. Draco sits up in a hospital bed, looking at someone to his right. Half of him is cast in darkness, the other half illuminated by harsh light. Bandages cover his chest and are wrapped around his head. Fresh scars wind from his chest up his face. One of his eyes is bloodshot. He looks angry, but somewhat tired.]
> 
> The next chapter will be called "The Kiss" . . . stayed tuned👀Thank you to those who have given kudos, subbed, and/or bookmarked this fic! I really appreciate it :)


	4. The Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After using Veritaserum to learn about Malfoy's task, a blissfully unaware Harry uses Amortentia to get Malfoy to cozy up to him. Platonically, of course. But Harry gets more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: brief q-slur and p--f slur, both toward the end. Image description for this chapter's illustration is in the end notes.

They both stared at each other in shock.

Malfoy squirmed desperately in his seat. _“Help! Help! Someone help me!”_

Harry had been right all along—Malfoy was plotting something dangerous. This was worse than he could have imagined, worse than everything Malfoy had done before, combined. He was filled with a loathing so intense it nearly choked him, his muscles taut with the urge not to strangle the boy on the spot. If he killed him now, he would have the satisfaction with none of the consequences. “Why . . . why are you so bloody evil?”

“I’m not evil; I don’t have a choice. If I don’t kill Dumbledore, the Dark Lord will kill me and possibly my parents. My father is in Azkaban, I have a chance to free him—”

“That shouldn’t matter. _You die anyhow._ If you’re not evil, then you’re a coward, aren’t you?”

Malfoy gritted his teeth and fought against the strains of his bonds. He must have been resisting the potion with Occlumency, for it took him a minute before he said, “Perhaps.”

Harry steeled himself for anything else he might uncover. “Look. I know you’re trying to use Occlumency. You should know that even if you hide something from me today, I’m going to find out the truth anyhow. And don’t try any wandless magic or I’ll retaliate and tell Dumbledore about your plans. So, have you used magic to manipulate time before?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I have not.”

“Are you sure? Would you know how to do it?”

“I’m sure. I know about Time-Turners, but I haven’t used one.” Malfoy had stopped resisting as he tried to figure out Harry’s intentions.

“Has Voldemort asked you to trap me in time?”

“The Dark Lord has not asked me to do anything to you.”

Harry swore under his breath and rubbed his face. “This all would’ve been so much easier if you were behind the time loop.” He swore again, then looked at Malfoy. “I’ve been stuck in time, living out the same day over and over for a month. Otherwise I wouldn’t be doing any of this, it’s too risky, and frankly, I feel like I’m stooping to your level.”

“Please. You’re always sneaking around, spying, ganging up on me. Don’t act like this isn’t something you would normally do. You’re desperate.”

“Even if you’re right, at least I’m doing it for the right reasons. _You’re planning a murder_. I’ve tried to figure out your plans all year, and nothing has worked. So what if I’ve been spying? It turns out I was right to!” He remembered what else Malfoy had said. “You’re desperate, too. I know you’ve been talking to Myrtle.”

Malfoy was deep in concentration, and Harry saw memories of the time loop flash before his eyes; now he knew Malfoy could use Legilimency.

“That’s enough.” Harry blinked and opened his eyes to stare at Malfoy again. “How is Snape involved with your plans?”  
“He’s protecting me. He took an Unbreakable Vow to protect me as I completed my mission.”

Harry sucked in a breath. “I knew it.” His entire body was ice cold. “I _knew_ he was working for Voldemort. All of these years, we’ve been told to trust him . . . I have to tell Dumbledore, before it’s too late. Hang on, if Snape wants Dumbledore dead, why hasn’t he killed him already?”

“He has to maintain his role as a double agent. I suppose he doesn’t want to risk being seen as the enemy, for the Order to turn on him. Besides, if I don’t do it personally, my father may not be freed.”

Harry’s heart pounded. “Has anyone else been helping you?”

“Crabbe and Goyle.”

“How have they been helping you?”

“They’ve been taking . . .” Malfoy’s face was going red, not from embarrassment, but from his attempts not to speak. “P-polyjuice Potion. Girls.”

The whole picture was coming into focus. “Those two girls who’ve been following you—so they’re Crabbe and Goyle.” Harry laughed. “I bet they hate that. So, you said you plan to use a Vanishing Cabinet. How do you intend on that? There’s one in the Room of Requirement, but it’s broken.”

“I’ve been fixing—testing . . . Nearly finished.” Malfoy’s brief, staggered answer was a sign he was regaining a grip over himself, using his Occlumency to block part of his responses.

“That’s why you’ve been disappearing off the map!” Harry shook his head. “I should’ve realized . . . it’s so obvious, now . . .” Crabbe and Goyle were guarding the door in disguise.

He crossed his arms and thought quickly about what to ask next. He likely had another ten minutes left with the potion, so he resolved to make the most of it and ask whatever he wanted, in the hopes that he would gain some insight to help him understand the situation.

“Did you hurt Katie Bell on purpose, or was that an accident?”

“An accident.”

“And the mead that almost killed Ron . . . did you do that, too?”

“The mead . . . gift for Dumbledore . . . accident.”

“Your accident nearly killed my best friend, you prat. I’m sure you didn’t care, though. You weren’t torn up about nearly murdering a student, you cared about not completing your mission.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone else, Potter. That’s not the point. Don’t tell me how I feel.”

“But clearly you’re not against hurting people. And you hate Mudbloods, don’t you?”

“I believe Mudbloods are inferior in—I do not—they are—they are inferior.”

Harry squinted at Malfoy. Was it his attempts at closing his mind, or was he actually conflicted? He pursed his lips. “Why do you hate me?”

“I hate you because you because your life is easy, you are meddlesome, and _you_ hate _me_.”

“Easy isn’t the first word that comes to mind when I think about my life, but you can assume whatever you like.”

Malfoy said nothing, and Harry remembered he would have to ask a question for the potion to work properly. “I always wondered: if you hate me, why did you want to be friends with me when we met?”

“I thought . . . you killed the Dark Lord . . . because you were a powerful Dark wizard.” He didn’t pause when Harry laughed. “My family thought it would be advantageous to ally with you. Of course, the Dark Lord was not alive then, nor did we think he would return.”

“Yeah, I haven’t lived up to the whole Dark wizard idea, have I?” Harry tried to read Malfoy’s expression, then with a jolt realized the absurdity of the setup. “Would you ever do something like this?”

“If I had thought I could get away with it.”

“What would you ask me?”

“What do you know of the Dark Lord? What are your plans to defeat him? What is the password to Dumbledore’s office? What is the password to the Gryffindor Tower—”

“That’s enough. Er, speaking of, what’s the password to the Slytherin Dungeon?”

“Sss . . .”

“Snake?”

“Person.” Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut with the effort of stopping himself.

“Look, just give in, I’ll find out eventually whether you tell me or not. I’ve got the invisibility cloak, remember?”

“Salazar.” Appropriately, Malfoy’s response came out in a hiss.

Following this idea, Harry quickly imagined what he could do with access to the Slytherin Dungeon. He could sneak in using his cloak, or . . . the last time he had tried to get information out of Malfoy, he and Ron had pretended to be Crabbe and Goyle.

“Are there any Slytherins you would talk to about your problems?”

“Pansy Parkinson.”

“How much have you already told her?”

“Very little.”

“Have you shown her your Dark Mark?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“The occasional Dark object I’ve snuck into Hogwarts.” He bit down hard on his lip to keep from speaking, but blurted out, “Myself.”

“Yourself . . . ?” It took Harry a moment to realize what Malfoy meant. “Er, that’s not—that’s not quite what I . . . bloody hell. Of all the times for your Occlumency to fail.”

Malfoy’s face was bright red, this time from embarrassment, and he cursed.

“I have to leave you here. It’s . . .” Harry checked his watch. “Quarter to nine.” The Veritaserum was nearly up, and then what? He resolved to do the same to Malfoy that the git had done to him. _“Petrificus Totalus!”_ Malfoy froze in the chair so that only his eyes could move. “I’ve got to leave you here, but time will reset and you’ll be fine, so don’t waste your energy fuming about it.”

On his way back to Gryffindor Tower, he swallowed any shame he might have felt. Dumbledore’s life was in danger, and he’d been right about Malfoy after all. Did he feel angry? More vindicated than angry, as he had low expectations of Malfoy to begin with.

“Hey, I have to tell you two something, can we find somewhere to talk alone?” They ended up kicking Dean and Seamus out of the dorm, which earned Harry two dirty looks (or one, as Dean seemed in too good of spirits to pull it off). Explaining everything from the loop to Malfoy’s confession, Harry relayed what he had found out about Malfoy’s plans.

“Is he even _trying_ to kill Dumbledore?” asked Ron. At Harry’s shocked expression, he added quickly, “What, no, I mean, he’s careless, you know? Me and Katie Bell—the cursed necklace, the poison—he should have gotten closer, but he hasn’t.”

Harry scoffed. “Why bother fudging it on purpose if he’s nearly killed two other people?”

“He’s not doing this out of logic, Harry,” said Hermione. “That much is obvious. He’s afraid, and when people are afraid, they’re stupid, quite frankly.”

“Everyone’s afraid! Can’t he see—”

“It’s not an excuse,” interrupted Hermione. “But he’s not a cold-blooded murderer intent on killing someone he despises no matter the cost. From what you’ve said, he wants to free his father and survive the war. Even then I’m sure he has a line he won’t cross.”

“What does it matter why he’s doing it, though?” said Ron.

“It’ll matter to Dumbledore,” replied Hermione, and that was the end of it. Her defense of Malfoy rubbed Harry the wrong way, making him more incensed than he already was. On the following day, he confronted Malfoy right after he left the girl’s bathroom.

“Whatever you’re planning, Malfoy, you won’t succeed.”

Malfoy started and furiously wiped his face.

“Your father’s a Death Eater, he deserves to be in prison.”

Without turning around, Malfoy shot back, “And your father deserves to be dead.”

Harry grabbed Malfoy’s left arm. “What did you—?” But before he could finish, Malfoy spun around, right fist connecting with Harry’s jaw. Harry stumbled back, still in shock but able to raise his arms in time to block Malfoy’s next attempt at hitting him. Harry latched onto his arm again, but Malfoy merely use this to pull Harry down and knee him in the stomach so hard he fell to the floor, groaning. Malfoy kicked him in the stomach again, and the chest, but when he paused to catch his balance, Harry kicked him hard in the shin, bringing him down to his level. He grabbed Malfoy by his shirt and tried to get close enough to hit him in the face, but Malfoy resisted, and they struggled to get a hit in while rolling on the floor. Stress and lack of sleep had weakened Malfoy, so he was eventually overpowered, and Harry hit him, again and again. He didn’t know how to punch correctly, and his knuckles hurt like hell. His blinding anger was already leaving him as hands pulled him off of Malfoy, whose face was streaked with blood and puffy.

When his surroundings registered, he heard Dean Thomas saying, “Back off, man! He’s had enough, you’ll only get in trouble.”

Seamus had pulled him off, and glared at Harry after he wormed out of his grasp. “You trying to get booted off the team? And right before a match?” Other students had gathered around to watch, whispering as a Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff helped Malfoy to his feet.

Dean rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Who started it?”

“He threw the first punch, he told me my father deserves to be dead. I hurt him more, though, so I expect when McGonagall finds out I’ll be off the team. Dean, you’ll rejoin as a Chaser, and Ginny will be Seeker, okay?”

He gaped at Harry. “But you don’t know if you’ll be in trouble.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” Harry stared after the students helping Malfoy to the Hospital Wing and gripped his right hand, which stung from the fight. “Time will reset tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

Numb, Harry ignored his question and looked at Seamus. “I’m sorry I didn’t choose you. You’ve got a lot of talent and I don’t want it to make things weird.”

“Your apology’s not gonna get me a spot on the team.”

Harry sighed and watched as the spectators dispersed. He’d have to go to the Hospital Wing, too, have his hands cleaned up and answer for what he had done. “What’s the point?” he said quietly. Part of him wanted to get away, travel to London and wait out the rest of the day.

Instead, he duly went to Professor McGonagall’s office before she summoned him.

“Sit down, Mr. Potter. I am dismayed by your behavior. If you can tell me what you possibly had to gain by harming a fellow student, I would love to hear it.” Her face was entirely devoid of humor, and he found he would much rather her be furious than disappointed.

“Professor, Malfoy told me my dad deserved to be dead.”

She sighed. “As horrible as such a remark is, it is hardly justification to injure Mr. Malfoy.”

Harry scoffed. “He started it.”

“Have you ever heard the expression, ‘An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind?’ Did it not for one moment cross your mind to be the better person?”

“What, so we should let people get away with stabbing other people’s eyes out? That’s not a world I’d want to live in.”

“We cannot have students running around like vigilantes, seeking justice for insults and slights against them, let alone physical violence. You ought to come to me if someone has broken a school rule before choosing to do something reckless.”

Only in the time loop would Harry dare push McGonagall this far. “I guess it’s not against school rules to be a Death Eater, then.”

McGonagall’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’m giving you detention for the rest of the year. From next week forward, every Monday evening you will serve detention in my office.”

“What about Quidditch? You’re not kicking me off the team?”

“Considering the circumstances, I don’t think that would be appropriate.” Her eyebrow twitched slightly. “Professor Snape will be not be granting such a punishment to Mr. Malfoy, so I will withhold a more severe consequence as well. Do not thank me, Potter.”

Harry closed his mouth at once, then opened it again, before asking, “Professor, if you were living the same day over and over again, what would you do?”

She studied him with her piercing green eyes. “I thought you were behaving more carelessly than usual, Potter. How long have you been like this?”

“Over a month.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows shot up. “That long? I thought all of the Time-Turners had been destroyed, how . . . ?”

“It’s not a Time-Turner. I haven’t been able to figure it out. I’ve spoken with Dumbledore, he couldn’t help.”

“And you understand the consequences if you should hurt someone and time resumes as normal? Petty fighting is one thing, but injury beyond that is another. You may have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life.”

“I’ve had Snape tell me off already. The thing is, if it’s a curse, maybe the only way to break it is by doing something unpleasant that I’ll have to live with.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know, because . . . on the day I got trapped, I was kicked off of the Quidditch team, and everyone was upset with me, all because I—because I nearly killed Malfoy. And I suppose I would have had to live with the consequences. But now that’s been erased. And after talking with professors, there could be a price for this curse. As in, a sacrifice.”

McGonagall shook off her disbelief. “They should have been more careful when advising you. You do not want to create a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“That’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it? You know, given Voldemort’s choice . . .”

“What I mean is, if this is indeed a curse, it may poison your thoughts, confuse you enough that you believe you must do something drastic to end it. You must exercise extreme caution and maintain a healthy dose of skepticism.” She stood. “I am going to inspect the bathroom. Have you already looked at the tile?”

“Oh. Er . . . no, I hadn’t gotten around to it . . .”

“You have had a month, have you not? Come, I will do my best to uncover what insight may be gained from the site.”

Luckily, it was nearing curfew at that point, so there wasn’t anyone around to stop them and ask why they going into the Myrtle’s bathroom. 

“Where exactly was Draco Malfoy lying after you injured him?”

Harry pointed to a spot near the center of the bathroom. “Here. Er, no, a little to the left, I think.”

_“Scourgify!”_ The tiled floor nearest her became a brilliant white; Harry was a bit unnerved, as he had always assumed the tile was gray. McGonagall waved her wand again and a tile broke off from the floor, floating over to hang between them. “Hm. Look at this.” She rotated the tile toward him—the back of the tile was covered in a ruby red sheen, glinting in the candlelight. With another cleaning charm and wave of her wand, she lifted a tile from the other end of the bathroom and compared the backs. The first was red, the other was a flat gray.

“What does it mean?” Harry grabbed one so she could take the other with her free hand.

McGonagall studied the ruby-coated tile. “Residual magic. You told me you recently read a book about the history of time travel?”

“Yeah, I can look for something in there.”

She paused. “You said Mr. Malfoy bled.”

Harry inhaled sharply. “So it’s . . . ?”

“Somehow, that was part of the equation, yes. Blood is an ancient ingredient in magic with powerful properties when used correctly. If it is related to your traveling in time, I fear this is more likely to be Dark magic. In any case, you ought to see what you can find in that book.”

Hermione found the right section in _Turning Time_ when he enlisted her help again. According to the “Research Methods” chapter, intricate patterns, bright colors, and burn marks were symptoms of attempts to travel back in time, specifically when the wizard did not use a device to focus the magic.

“Residue can indicate region, intent . . . but they don’t have enough comprehensive observations to say anything definitive. There’s nothing about blood, but there is a mention of sacrifice.”

“Can you read it to me?” asked Harry.

“Let’s see . . . ‘Rituals to manipulate reality occasionally deal with bodily sacrifice. Physical evidence of this is rarely found, as folk tales and legends are the primary modes in which these details survive.’”

Ron sat back in his chair. “The sacrifice is Malfoy? Why?”

“I wish I knew. Is there anything you haven’t told me?”

“No, just that I thought I was the sacrifice. Or that I would have to do something terrible to get out of this mess.”

“And you’ve already injured him again, haven’t you? If it was simple, I would have thought that sacrifice would reverse the time loop.”

Harry shrugged. “I just feel like I’m going in circles . . . Nothing’s adding up, and it’s all on top of what I already have to deal with regarding Voldemort and the Horcruxes. Before this, I thought we were getting somewhere. Finally moving forward.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance. “Look, mate—” began Ron, but Harry stood up, cutting him off.

“I need some time to think.” A way forward was what he had to find, and it looked as though it was pointing back to Malfoy. If Ron and Hermione were involved in his plans, they would only hold him back, tell him to stop obsessing.

But he couldn’t.

Veritaserum had proven useful in gaining information, however, it was not worth trying again until he came up with new questions. A different spell, potion, or strategy could help gain more insight into Malfoy’s plan or an explanation for the time loop, especially if Malfoy couldn’t use Occlumency. He needed something that would get Malfoy to open up, think he could confide in him. And then Harry had an idea, even if it was unconventional: a love potion. The Weasley twins dealt in love potions, after all, so it would be less of a hassle to secure. After drinking the potion, Malfoy would think him to be a trustworthy friend, and therefore freely tell him about his plans.

First thing the next morning, Harry tried a few of the face-modifying Transfiguration spells he had learned that year, snuck out of Hogwarts under the cloak and traveled to Diagon Alley via Portkey from Hogsmeade.

Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes stood out among the other shops, and he felt pulled in by the tingling of excitement in his gut. Inside, there were a few customers in a small group, all speaking in a language he didn’t know. Apart from them, the brightly-colored shop was empty.

A woman sat at the counter further inside the store, playing solitaire with tiny cards with a look of extreme boredom. He thought he recognized her from the last time he had visited the store. “Excuse me, are Fred and George in today?”

The shop assistant’s eyes landed on his scar, then appraisingly over the rest of him. She must have been assigned to assess whether or not customers were undercover Death Eaters. After all, the real Harry Potter should be at school. “I’ll tell them you’re here,” she said, then pressed a bright purple button out of the colorful assortment of them at the corner of the desk.

A minute later, a door opened upstairs and the twins went to the banister to see who was below. Upon finding Harry staring up at them, their faces went pale. He grinned sheepishly, trying to communicate that everything was okay, and they smiled tentatively back, still unsure whether or not they should be worried.

Fred reached him first and asked, “Has someone—”

“Everyone’s fine,” said Harry. “I’ve left school for a favor.”

The pair wore crimson robes with gold embroidery that swirled and danced across the fabric. Harry watched them in a new light, their confident charm a beacon through his frustration and displeasure at the monotony of the loop.

“I need a love potion.”

Fred grinned. “What, are you not charming enough on your own?”

“I don’t need it for anything like that.”

“Ooh, for revenge?” ventured George, eyes twinkling at the idea.

“Of a sort. It could help defeat Voldemort.”

Fred and George glanced at each other. “If it’s that important,” said George, “You can have what’s left of the Amortentia we used for our research.”

By the time Harry returned to Hogwarts, it was just past lunch. He had plenty of time to use the potion, so he decided to set his trap at dinner. Its effects could last up to several hours. Slughorn hadn’t discussed the effects of Amortentia on two people of the same sex, but Harry figured it would produce a slightly different effect, creating false friendship rather than false love, and with it, heightened trust and respect. He had to try it, anyway, and in case something went wrong, he kept a sleeping potion handy.

“Dobby?” he said, once he was alone in the dorm, and the house-elf Apparated next to him. “Dobby, I need you to put this potion in Malfoy’s goblet at dinner. After he’s drunk the potion, slip him this note without him seeing. Can you do that? He can’t know about you or the potion.”

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir, Dobby can! What is the potion?”

Harry nearly told him it was Veritaserum, but feared Dobby wouldn’t be able to follow through with it, not without hurting himself. “It’s to help him sleep tonight. I’m, er, going to try to talk to Malfoy, convince him to switch sides, so I need him to be well-rested. You probably know by now that he’s always tired.” It was a lame lie, but Dobby dutifully took his note ( _Come to the Astronomy Tower tonight at 7:30pm. Don’t tell anyone we’re meeting. —H.P.)_ and reported back after dinner to tell him Malfoy had drunk the potion.

At fifteen past seven, Harry climbed up to the tower under his cloak. He idly spent time looking out over the grounds as he considered what to talk about with Malfoy, until his thoughts petered out and the entirety of his mind was occupied by the rolling hills of the Highlands, how the spots of rain had finally given way to the sun. The weather was the same as it had been every day in the loop, without fail, though considering early spring in the country, he had not found it unusual until now.

At a single toll of the bell, Harry remembered himself and tucked away his cloak.

“Potter?” Malfoy came up the stairs, expression sharp, though not snide or condescending.

Harry stepped into view. “Er, hello, Malfoy.” Funny—he assumed Malfoy would call him by his first name rather than his surname.

The boy’s mouth split into a grin. “Hello! It’s so lovely to see you.”

_This is too strange, but at least it worked,_ thought Harry, taking an unconscious step back.

“What did you want to meet me for?” Malfoy approached quickly, reaching for him.

“Er, I wanted to—” Harry stopped. Malfoy’s hands were light, cool on his forearms. “I wanted . . .”

As he looked down at Harry, Malfoy’s pale face flushed with color, his hair seeming even blonder than usual in comparison.

Harry cleared his throat. “Are you okay? You’re quite red.”

Malfoy’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m more than okay.”

Chills ran up Harry’s back. The huskiness in Malfoy’s voice threw his already quickened heartbeat into a jumbled skip.

“So—we’re friends now?” Harry’s arms burned under Malfoy’s cold fingers.

Malfoy’s grin widened. “I’m sorry I’ve hated you for so long. But I got your note and I realized—we’re meant for each other.”

“Meant for each other?” echoed Harry, trying to decipher Malfoy’s look when the boy closed the distance between them, kissing him on the lips.

Almost immediately, Harry jerked back, hands too weak with shock to push him away. “W-what was that for?”

Malfoy wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck. “I love you.” His eyes flickered between Harry’s eyes and his mouth.

Harry twisted out of Malfoy’s embrace and drew his wand, heart racing. “Don’t touch me again, or I’ll hex you.”

The threat processed slowly, but after a moment, Malfoy stuck out his lower lip. “But Potter, I want to touch you. I’ve dreamed of touching you.”

Harry fought the urge to end the experiment by hexing Malfoy. Why the hell was the Amortentia working this way? Why didn’t it matter that they were both blokes? _Thank Merlin time will reset tomorrow_. He wondered what he could ask that would make the whole mess worthwhile. “But, er, Malfoy, if we were meant for each other . . . well, how do you suppose we can be together with your current situation—the task Voldemort has given you?”

Malfoy’s face briefly scrunched up in thought, then he replied, “If you killed the Dark Lord.”

That was something Harry could work with. “And how would I do that?”

Malfoy rubbed his neck and drew in an impatient breath. “I don’t know. I just know we ought to be together.” Apparently untroubled by Harry’s raised wand, he took a step forward.

“Oi! Don’t—Malfoy, I gave you Amortentia. What you’re feeling, it’s not real. Look, don’t make me—”

“It _is_ real.” Malfoy fidgeted, caught between doing what Harry wanted and what the Amortentia told him he wanted. “I was always too afraid to admit it, but now I can finally tell you.”

“Right, well, here’s the flaw in your reasoning: you say you’ve always fancied me, and I know for a fact you haven’t fancied me before today. You hate me.”

“No, I have fancied you. It’s—I . . . I act like I hate you, but . . .” he paused for a moment. “You’re like the sun, Potter. I had to glare at you to protect myself.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” Before this, Harry had felt he was regaining control. But now . . . Ron hadn’t said anything remotely poetic after eating Romilda Vane’s Chocolate Cauldrons, had he?

“I wish I were more like you, I wish I had what you have. You’re perfect, and I envy you. And if we were together, I wouldn’t have to worry about Death Eaters, or the Dark Lord.”

Harry greatly preferred Malfoy ramble instead of attempting to kiss him, but even at a safe distance, his heart pounded erratically with apprehension. “We can’t be together, though. I don’t know how to kill Vol—You-Know-Who.” Harry felt ridiculous playing along, but he recognized it may be his only shot at getting any use out of the potion.

“I’m not strong enough to be a double agent. They would find me out. And Snape swore to help me succeed with my mission—if I don’t kill Dumbledore, my family and I will be killed.”

“I know.” Harry sighed. “Look, if I found out how to kill Voldemort, how long would I have until I’d be putting you at risk? A month? A week?”

“I want to be with you as soon as possible, Potter.”

Harry’s stomach turned over. “Fine. Once Voldemort learns I know how to kill him, how long do I have?”

“A couple of days, maybe one day. Until he tries to kill me.” Malfoy chewed his lip. “His legendary skill at Legilimency makes it difficult to conceal anything from him. But my parents—the Dark Lord sometimes stays at Malfoy Manor, our home . . . he would be able to kill my mother quickly, and my father is defenseless in prison.”

“Is Voldemort at the manor now?”

“I’m not sure. Why does it matter?” He reached for Harry’s hand, missing it by an inch when Harry recoiled. “ _You and I_ matter.”

Swallowing hard, Harry tried to focus on what he could ask next. The absurdity of the interaction was too disorienting to concentrate. “You’re out of your mind.”

“No, I’m still in my mind, Potter.”

Goosebumps spread up Harry’s arms. “Look, how can you expect anything to come out of this? I’m not—I only fancy girls. And you of all people, why should I return your feelings, let alone tolerate you?”

Finally, Malfoy was stumped.

“See? There’s nothing you could do—”

“I wish I could show you who I really am. I’ve been learning Legilimency.”

There it was: a way to make the whole charade worthwhile. “You know why I dislike you, right, Malfoy? So what do I need to know—”

“For you to love me?”

“Er, to understand you. Help you.” There would be a clue among the information, an insight to shift the tide. “If you think of the memories, anything useful, then use your wand to pull them out of your head, I’ll use a device to view them . . .”

Malfoy touched the tip of his wand to his temple, screwed his eyes shut, then extracted a short thread of glittering memories. He put it in his palm and waited for Harry to retrieve the empty Amortentia bottle. After he threaded it into the container and Harry corked it, there was that look again, gaze softened with a fondness that unnerved him to his core. It was the final straw.

“Malfoy, can you lean on that wall over there? Perfect. _Petrificus Totalus!”_ Harry pulled his Invisibility Cloak out of his robes and draped it over Malfoy’s frozen body. “I would be sorry about this, but tomorrow everything will be reset.”

According to his observations on the Marauder’s Map, Dumbledore tended to retire to his quarters at nine. In the event that Dumbledore monitored his office at night, Harry braced himself to explain the loop and that he needed to use the Pensieve—hopefully he wouldn’t have to explain further.

The glittering strand of memories spooled into the thin basin. Harry drew in a breath and dipped his face below the water’s surface, falling in a long arc to the first memory.

Malfoy, no older than five, sat in the middle of an oriental rug. Harry was struck by how different he looked: floppy-haired, round-cheeked, too young to have developed proper posture and a perpetual sneer. Judging by the posh tile fireplace, the high ceilings, and—oh, obviously—the huge portrait of some blond-haired ancestor on the wall, he was in Malfoy Manor.

What was Malfoy doing to his arm? Ink dripped onto the rug from the quill he was using to scrawl on his left arm.

He was drawing a Dark Mark.

“Draco!” came a woman’s voice from downstairs. “It’s time for dinner.”

Malfoy put the inkwell and quill on the table and hurried downstairs, eyes on his art. Narcissa Malfoy stood in the foyer, arms crossed, expecting him to come from another room. When she turned around, her gaze fell immediately onto her son’s arm. “What is—Draco!” Face pale, she pulled out her wand.

“Where’s Papa?” asked Draco, not registering his mother’s shock.

“Fetch a bottle of Merlot, nothing later than ’76,” said Lucius Malfoy from the other room.

Draco ran up to his father as he entered. “Papa, look what I drew.”

Lucius reflexively reached toward his own left arm. “Ah, that is—you know, you are too young to be drawing that. I would rather people not see—”

As soon as Draco realized his father wasn’t proud of his creation,tears poured out of his eyes. Draco’s mother waved her wand to lift the ink from his skin, but the memory was fading . . . 

“They’re dull.” It must have been five years later, given how close Malfoy looked to when Harry first met him. He was lying on a leather couch in another extravagant room.

“They’re your friends, Draco, you shouldn’t say such things about them,” replied Narcissa, waving her hand to wandlessly summon a bookmark.

“Crabbe’s constantly talking about Quidditch. As much as I like Quidditch, it’s not the only thing there is to talk about. And Goyle just laughs at everything, even if it’s not funny.”

“What are you going to do, then, when you get to Hogwarts?”

“Pansy will be in Slytherin, and Blaise for certain, Harry Potter—”

“Why do you think Harry Potter will be in Slytherin?”

Malfoy looked at her as though she had just suggested their family donate all of their belongings and move into a two-bedroom flat in the suburbs. “He’s bound to be the most powerful wizard of all time, even father says so. I want to be on the right team, don’t I?”

“Very smart, Draco.” She was a bit patronizing, but he failed to notice. “What if you don’t like him?”

As though considering this possibility for the first time, Malfoy said slowly, “I’ll come around. You changed your mind about the Dark Lord, right?”

The scene dissolved. Harry expected it to be the day of their first encounter in Madam Malkin’s, but instead, it was night on the Quidditch Pitch. Malfoy and a group of some Durmstrang students had apparently raided the broom cupboard and took off into the night sky.

All of a sudden, something in Harry’s middle lurched up and flung him up and up until he was floating next to Malfoy, whose face was alight with adrenaline. Even though he was only two years younger here, he looked like a different person. There was no hatred in his face. No anger. No anxiety.

A Durmstrang boy glided over to him, hanging like a monkey upside down on his broom. He was handsome, with a huge smile and stringy limbs.

Malfoy laughed, genuinely laughed. Then the boy’s hand slipped, and in a flash, the smile was gone and replaced with panic, only for the boy to effortlessly swing back on his broom. “Kidding,” he said. As Malfoy flew away in a huff, Harry and the Durmstrang boy were left to watch his retreating figure.

After this, there must have been nearly thirty snapshots of Malfoy’s memories, each no longer than ten seconds, all out of chronological order:

Narcissa cradled him as he cried, her own face streaked with the pains of grief.

He looked over at Harry—had they just argued about something?—then blinked a few times, hard.

In the Slytherin locker room, he pulled off his uniform and shook some of the sweat from his hair.

He crouched by an older student who lay injured in a corridor: “I’ll find whoever did this to you.”

As a child, probably seven, Malfoy ran around his father’s study as he bent over a mysterious object.

Lucius read him a bedtime story about the stars, then waved his wand to recreate the night sky.

Him, sitting at the bottom of a pool, reaching to touch an animated toy Grindylow.

Sitting before the Vanishing Cabinet, he reached to grab one of the myriad of tools suspended in midair.

“You should’ve been top of the class, you’re the most intelligent person in our year,” said Pansy, and Draco’s lips curled into a smile.

As a child, probably five, Malfoy wailed while surrounded by all of his Christmas gifts.

Lucius threatened Dobby with a poker from the fire when the elf forgot to bring sugar on a tea tray.

He sat hunched over in a chair—what was wrong with him?—eyes unfocused, breathing hard, shaking.

In a dark corridor, Harry heard the distinct sound of kissing, and sure enough, Pansy held Malfoy’s face as they stuck together like glue.

“How many more times can you disappoint me?” said Lucius, and Draco winced, eyes averted.

Him, wearing a black silk robe and slippers as he read a book in bed.

Taking Pansy’s hand in his own, he swept onto the dance floor that filled with couples.

Narcissa covered her nose when they passed a group of Muggles, apparently trying to make her distaste obvious to her son.

He clamored for a voice among a group of Slytherins: “Umbridge is a nightmare and painfully ignorant. I know that, everyone knows that. It was never about her, it’s about _them_ . . .”

He ran his hand through his long blond hair—had he transfigured it?—while looking in the mirror.

Him, looking up to the sky in Hogsmeade with snowflakes catching in his eyelashes.

Patting Cedric’s shoulder, he wished him good luck in the Triwizard Tournament.

Narcissa gasped when she saw him digging through her makeup, his lips clumsily painted red.

“What are you, queer?” said Crabbe, and Draco’s face reddened.

As a child, probably ten, Malfoy took off on a small broom on the manor grounds as his parents looked on.

In the manor, alone, Malfoy created a long gash in the marble floor, then began repairing it.

Lucius told him to stay out of the way before putting on a Death Eater mask.

After this sequence of memories, there was one final hazy scene, similar to the distortions in Slughorn’s first memory of his conversation with Riddle. It was in Madam Malkin’s, though all Malfoy had constructed in his head were a rack of clothes, Malkin, Harry, and himself.

Unlike what actually happened, Malfoy introduced himself properly. “I’m Draco Malfoy. And you are?”

“I’m Harry. Er, Potter.”

Eyes widening, Malfoy stepped closer, forcing Malkin to stop pinning his robes.

“Harry Potter.”

“Right.”

Malfoy offered his hand. “Good to meet you.”

“You, too.” Intentionally or not, Malfoy recreated in Harry’s expression the same the skepticism Harry had felt upon first meeting him.

“Who are you here with? Where have you been all these years?”

And then the memory dimmed. Harry explained about Hagrid, only for Malfoy to call the groundskeeper a savage; the false memory restarted and Malfoy invited Harry to meet his parents, only for him to say something nasty about Muggleborns in the same breath. The memory repeated over and over again, and each time something didn’t work.

Until Harry mentioned Hagrid and Malfoy bit his tongue.

“Oh? And I imagine . . . Dumbledore sent him?”

“Yeah. So who are you with?”

“My mother and father.”

“I’ve never met a wizarding family before.”

“Really? You’ve been living with Muggles?”

“Yeah.”

Malfoy let this sink in. “Have you learned any magic at all? How can you afford your school supplies?”

“I haven’t learned any magic. Are we supposed to know magic before school? Do we have summer homework?”

“Oh, Harry, there is so much to teach you . . .”

Harry watched as the scene slid away, leaving him in a black void. He strained to hear and picked up the ebb and flow of unrecognizable sounds, as though a cassette tape were being fast forwarded. When a new memory emerged from the dark, it was Malfoy Manor once more, only this time, a near-present version of Harry stood in the center of the room—a bedroom. In his hands was a steaming mug of something, presumably tea, of which he took a careful sip. Whatever clothes this version of himself wore, they appeared more suited to Malfoy than to him.

This memory-Harry smiled, gaze soft, eyes meeting with something beyond the real Harry.

Before Harry could see what or who he was looking at, the memories ended and he pulled his head out of the basin.

“It didn’t work,” he said aloud, as though it was only true if he gave life to the words. He wasn’t even sure if he was referring to his plan to get information or Malfoy’s claim that the memories would make him fall in love. The memories just asked more questions than they answered. First and foremost: why did Malfoy choose those particular moments of his life, real or invented? And second, could what he’d seen help in any way?

Harry left the office without interference and headed straight for the dorm. To distract himself, he asked Ron and Hermione to stay up with him and revise. The longer he spent talking, the easier it was to pretend his love potion idea hadn’t completely backfired. At least, until they got to their Potions work.

“Ron, what was it like when you had those Cauldron Cakes a couple months ago? The ones spiked with love potion.”

“Where’s this coming from? It was weird.”

“I realized I never asked, is all.”

Ron glanced at Hermione, who seemed curious as well, though her jaw tightened as she likely remembered Ron’s brush with death. “Can’t say I really knew what was going on. I couldn’t think of anything besides Romilda. It was like a fever dream, and I loved her more than it’s possible to love someone. Obsession.”

“What would you have done, if you’d found Romilda?”

Ron shrugged, not looking at Hermione. “Dunno. Probably . . . grabbed her and gone in to kiss her.”

Hermione cut in, “Slughorn said the cakes were stronger because they were old. Amortentia isn’t normally so aggressive, it’s meant to be realistic enough in its effects that the person administering the potion could suspend their disbelief, pretend the love is real.”

“Realistic, what does that mean exactly?”

“I haven’t witnessed it, but from what I’ve read, the person would be focused on you rather than the _idea_ of you. Still obsessed, perhaps, but in a way that is not alienating. So someone who’s taken the potion would compliment your achievements and personality instead of simply your appearance, as well as refer to their memories of you.”

Harry noticed them staring at his bouncing leg, so he stopped.

“Is this about something the Prince wrote?” asked Ron, glancing at Harry’s copy of _Advanced Potions_.

“Yeah, just a tip he had about one of the ingredients for the potion.” He wanted to tell them about Malfoy, to move past the dread that forced his words to stay in his throat. Something held him back. As he lay in bed, he began to worry that time wouldn’t reset, and he’d have to resort to a memory charm, or that somehow Malfoy escaped. In that case, he would convince everyone—at least the Slytherins—that Harry was a poof. On top of that, he found it hard to imagine what the consequences would be if Malfoy was aware how much he knew about his plans.

When he woke up the next morning, his duvet and pillows had been pushed off the bed from his fitful sleep. To his relief, his glasses were next to his book, not on top of it. He hoped he could pretend the previous day had been nothing more than a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Image description: Chapter illustration for “The Kiss.” Sketchy digital illustration. Draco is in the front right with his back toward the viewer and leans in toward Harry, presumably to kiss him. Harry, meanwhile, is looking slightly up at Draco’s eyes and his blank expression suggests he isn’t aware of what is about to happen.]


	5. Tower of Diaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry investigates more than just the loop—his feelings after the kiss, what other students at Hogwarts are up to, and an important tie to his father. 
> 
> Everything he thought he understood is about to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter illustration description at the end of the chapter.

At breakfast, Harry tried to reconcile the scowling Malfoy he knew too well with the one who had been intoxicated with love potion. Before, it had been difficult to associate the same magic that Romilda Vane had intended for Harry with the magic that had created Voldemort. Merope Gaunt had likely used Amortentia to force Tom Riddle, Sr. into loving her. If Malfoy could experience such a dramatic change from hatred to love, of course Voldemort’s father could have appeared to love Merope.

The potion had been too convincing, had created a crystalline reality so delicately balanced that it eventually shattered.

As convincing as the alternate reality Malfoy showed Harry was—surely there was a version of events that would have left them as friends, not rivals—it was invented. Harry knew that.

Malfoy caught his eye as he had this thought, causing Harry to dribble some of his drink onto his robes. He tried to pass it off as an unfortunate coincidence, though in the corner of his vision he could see Malfoy and Pansy snickering about it.

How did other people feel after using Amortentia on someone?Why had the Amortentia worked on Malfoy even though they were of the same sex? Usually Harry would go to Hermione to ask for research help, but the subject was too embarrassing. She would only reprimand him for using the love potion, and he already regretted it.

Regardless of the fact that the target had been someone Harry loathed, he felt intense shame in having forced another person to fancy him—and a _boy,_ at that. Fighting was a different sort of violence to forcing intimacy, maybe because in battles there was a mutual, unspoken agreement that they were each willing to risk harm for the possibility of hurting the other. A twisted kind of contract.

Since many students had just gotten out of class, the library was teeming with people when Harry arrived. After some time browsing the bookshelves, he found the section on potions and grabbed a stack of four books that he thought might have what he was looking for.

The most secluded desk in the corner of the library provided Harry the privacy he wanted. Already feeling his motivation wane, he flipped through the pages of _Producing Potions: Studies of the Effects of Problem-Solving and Culture-Changing Concoctions, 1854-1954_. He justified his lack of direction by telling himself he could find something useful for a different plan. On the page he opened to, there was an illustration of a tall bottle with a ship painted on the front in the midst of a flat ocean, a slight spray at the ship’s bottom the only evidence that it was moving. The page next to the illustration was labeled Solutions for Bodily Ailments. Harry read on:

_This digestive potion emerged on the American market in the early 1800s as a response to the increasing age of the wizarding population and the need for easier intercontinental travel. Appropriately, the potion was originally produced under the name “Smooth Sailing” (see fig. 14)._

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry quickly shut the book and looked up at Luna Lovegood, who regarded him curiously.

“Er, hi, Luna.”

“What are you reading?” She reached for the book, fingers missing it by an inch as Harry pulled it away.

“I’m just—I’m doing some research. On potions.”

“Oh. Would you like my help? If you say no, I won’t be offended.” Luna tilted her head and blinked, emulating the expression of an owl.

“Well . . .” She was in Ravenclaw, after all, so he figured she must have good research skills. And she was likely to be unfazed by his situation. “Okay. Thank you.”

Luna smiled and sat down next to him, pushing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “Can I see the book?”

Harry slid it toward her. “I’m looking for information on a potion. Amortentia.”

Luna searched him briefly, then looked back at _Producing Potions_. She waved her wand then tapped the book’s cover. _“Astendo Amortentia!”_ With a heave, the book flipped over to a page somewhere in the middle with the subheading, “Subject-substance Relationship: Amortentia Case Study.”

Harry gaped at her. “You have to show me how to do that.”

“A Ravenclaw student invented the charm a few decades ago. It’s a secret among our House; some say we have ten times the secrets of the others . . .” Luna’s voice drifted off as she leaned over to read the page.

Harry tried to remember the movement she had made, the enunciation of the spell, but knew he would have to see it again in order to recall it properly later.

“Here.” Luna turned the book toward him.

He skimmed until he found a relevant excerpt and pointed to it for Luna to follow along:

_In an objective trial of the potion, when compared with a control group, potioneers found Amortentia’s effects were not solely contingent on the quality of the brew. 13 married couples, 22 couples in new relationships (under 6 months), 10 pairs of friends, 14 pairs of strangers, and 15 pairs with negative opinions of each other were tested. Each pairing was between a wizard and a witch. In general, the potion’s effects varied depending on the preexisting relationship between the potion recipient and subject._

Harry leaned closer to the page. This was what he had been hoping to find.

_Effectiveness here is measured by the potion’s outcome (believability, intensity, and complexity) rather than by how drastic the increase in affection is felt before and after the potion (see fig. 28 for a more comprehensive analysis of the data). Based on the findings, if the recipient has strong negative feelings for the person they are meant to fall in love with (referred to henceforth as the subject), the potion will be less effective, creating a mindless obsession in the recipient. If the subject is a stranger, the obsession is similar, and the focus of the recipient is on the person’s physical characteristics. Between friends and married couples, the potion is more effective, enhancing a pre-existent friendly, intimate infatuation. Between new couples, the potion was most effective, creating a combination of passionate physical and emotional desire. These results held up in comparison to a control group, who ingested placebos._

There was a more specific, technical explanation following the summary, though Harry had trouble following it and gave up, sighing heavily, willing his breathing to return to normal.

“Is there something else about Amortentia you want to know?”

“Its effects on—I mean, how the potion works on people of the same sex.”

Luna paused, probably caught off guard. “That’s not in here. I doubt it will say specifically, so you would have to test it.”

“I have.” Harry shut his mouth abruptly; in his head, it seemed a simple statement of fact, but out loud, it brought on an intense wave of shame.

“You have tested it? On whom?”

Harry regarded Luna. There was something about her steady expression that made him want to explain everything from the beginning. “Can we talk somewhere more private?”

They left the library and Luna suggested the greenhouses. “. . . It’s warm—you know, for the plants—and I go there sometimes with Neville.”

Once they were alone, Harry told Luna about the time loop, the routines he’d developed, what he hoped to find out, and finally—the love potion. “I want to understand because it was so . . . out of the blue. And if I’m trying to find out more information from Malfoy, I need to know which, er, methods work on him.”

Luna tickled one of the plants, making it dance. “What was it like?”

Harry flushed. “What do you mean?”

“Which description from the book applies to him?”

“Oh. Er, I dunno, sort of the negative relationship one, he seemed out of it at the time. Except . . . also . . .” _Don’t say it, don’t say it—_ “The couples.”

Luna raised her eyebrows. “You’ve got your answer, then.”

For the first time that day, Harry felt genuinely annoyed at her. “No, I haven’t, because it doesn’t make sense. Besides, something could have been different about the potion. Amortentia strengthens the longer it’s kept.”

“I suppose you won’t know, unless you use it again. Or have someone else try it.”

Harry scoffed. “I can’t use it again, and I couldn’t ask someone else to be involved, let alone do it without their knowledge.” Luna didn’t have to change her expression much for Harry to continue, “I did it without Malfoy’s knowledge, sure, but there was a point. He wasn’t supposed to . . .” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter, there’s nothing to figure out. I know he hates me. We hate each other.”

“But you don’t actually still hate him, do you?”

Harry put his head in his hands and groaned. “I can’t hate him, not like I used to, but I can hardly like him, either.” He rested his hands in his lap. “A strong dislike, then. He’s a coward, a prick, and a Pureblood-loving git. He’s a Death Eater, for Merlin’s sake. And yet . . . I can’t help thinking this is the point. If I’m reliving the day I nearly killed him, it’s got to have something to do with that. As I’ve told you, the only thing changing from day to day is what I know about the magic behind the loop and Malfoy’s plan. I suppose, also, my opinion toward everyone is changing, and that includes Malfoy.”

“I’d like to help you, Harry.”

“You would?”

“Yes.” Luna smiled. “If you need help, just find me, explain everything like you did, and I will do my best. I can tell you what I did today so you know where I’ll be.”

“Thank you, Luna.” Harry wanted to hug her, but she made no motion in that direction. “I don’t know how you can be so calm about everything.”

“You know, I’ve heard of stranger things than this, Harry.”

* * *

After that day, Harry went to Luna for guidance whenever he thought of something new to discuss. She always initially reacted the same way after he explained the loop, but then was motivated to find something novel to say, to approach his predicament from a new angle.

When he told her about the Amortentia again, she suggested, “You should find out what his Amortentia smells like.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Then I could find out who he really fancies, in case it’s not Pansy, and use her to get more information.”

“That’s not what I meant. Maybe you should try something else.”

It was Luna, after all, so he didn’t expect her to understand all of his choices. “What should I do if I want to know more about what he’s up to?”

“I find that my best ideas come when I least expect them. Focus on something else, and maybe it’ll come to you.”

With her advice in mind, Harry decided to continue going to class. Some days, he told Ron and Hermione that he was stuck in time and asked them what he should do, others he spent as though nothing was off and focused on learning something useful from his textbooks.

A week later, after managing to get through an entire day without thinking about the Amortentia incident, Harry had unusually vivid dreams. He couldn’t remember how he got to this part, dreaming about kissing Ginny. They were in the Great Hall and rows of students had their heads bent over the tables, focused on revision. Then Ginny had to leave—and that was okay, he was aware of the time loop, it would happen again.

When Ron shook Harry awake, it sent an irrational surge of anger through him. A moment later, he remembered why; in his dream, Malfoy had given Harry a love potion at breakfast and they met up in secret at the Quidditch pitch to snog. And it was actually _nice_. Before Harry’d had time to get his bearings, he had been forced awake. As he dressed, the warm feeling from the dream ebbed and he felt an awful twisting in his gut.

“You alright, mate? You look like you’re gonna be sick.”

Harry steadied his breathing, hoping this would calm his stomach. Unfortunately for him, the feeling of fullness in his throat grew worse, and he mumbled something about needing a minute before rushing up to the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water, then gripped the sink to steady himself. When he looked at his face in the mirror, his expression reminded him of Malfoy on the fateful day they had fought in the girls’ bathroom.

_It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to mean something,_ Harry reassured himself. There were plenty of reasons why he would have such a dream: the time loop getting to his head, the shock of Malfoy’s actions under the love potion, the fact that Malfoy happened to be on his mind because of his investigations. And actually, in the dream, wasn’t he pushing Malfoy away? Or he at least remembered the stiffness of the kiss, the awkwardness. He had overreacted.

Under normal circumstances, he would have kept the dream to himself. However, these were unusual circumstances, and his embarrassment would be temporary if he wanted to talk to Ron about it.

“I was wondering, have you had any dreams where you kissed someone?” he asked that evening, trying to play off the question as off-handed and casual as possible.

“Just kissed?”

“Er, yeah. If it was more I don’t need to know.”

“Of course, loads of times. It doesn’t really mean anything, sometimes I don’t even know the girl. In fourth year, though—” He stopped mid-thought and cleared his throat. “Have you not?”

“Sure, once in a while.” That was a lie; something told him only having one or two such dreams put him in the minority. “Last night, I had a dream where I kissed someone I don’t like.” He paused, thinking quickly. “Pansy.”

“Oh, no.” Ron clicked his tongue. “Happens to the best of us.”

“What do you mean?”

“After I had those Cauldrons, I had a dream about Romilda, even though in a way she nearly killed me.” He shuddered. “She’s fit enough, just . . . also a bit mad . . .”

“Right.” Realizing he was rubbing his arm where Malfoy had touched him, Harry dropped his hand.

Ron peered at him. “You okay, mate? It’s not a big deal.”

“No, I know. The loop’s just getting to me, is all.”

“Have you asked my brother for help yet?”

“Which brother?”

“Bill. He was a Curse-Breaker, remember? If he can’t help, he might know someone who can.”

“I’ll try him, then.”

On the morning of the following day, Harry left a note on his bed for Ron, writing that he was going to London and if he and Hermione could cover for him he would explain everything later.

Some of the goblins in Gringotts stared at him warily as he entered, and he realized his disguise charms must look rather obvious to them. He took out his wand, causing a few more to look up, and restored his appearance.

Seeing Bill sent a thrill of joy through Harry that he couldn’t quite explain. It was his smile, wasn’t it? A look that made him feel like everything would be okay, and a firm handshake that gave him hope that Bill would have the answers.

“Harry, it’s good to see you. Shouldn’t you, er, be in school? And what’s happened to your eyebrow?”

Harry’s hand jumped to his left eyebrow, then to his right—or at least, where his right should have been. He wouldn’t try altering his appearance without a mirror again anytime soon. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?” All of the goblins had returned to their work, but some had their ears perked up. “It’s about a situation at Hogwarts. Nothing urgent. I thought if I came around lunchtime . . .”

“Ah, right, I can take my break now.” Bill led Harry through a corridor to a small but plush break room, seemingly designated for human employees as an afterthought. The decorative plaster ceiling had a carving of a serpentine dragon at its center and glass lamps filled the room with light.

Posh decor aside, Bill seemed out of place in his formal clothes, especially because he still wore an earring. His hair was in a short plait that he could somehow make look cool. “Is this about Ron or Ginny?”

“No, no, they’re fine.” Harry launched into an explanation of the curse, starting with the first day he cast Sectumsempra as Bill listened, nodding every now and then, his puzzled frown deepening by the minute.

Once Harry was done, Bill stood and began to pace. “Unfortunately, this is outside of my expertise. When I was a Curse-Breaker in Egypt, my team and Ihad some context as to who cast the curse and the kind of magic they used.” His rugged features trained on Harry. “It is likely you are the sole person with the power to break the curse, if it is indeed a curse. If you solve five components of the curse—intent, strength, originality, effects, and catalyst—you should be able to figure out how to break it.”

“Intent, I have no idea. Strength, I’d say it’s stronger than average—”

“Which suggests more than one person created this. Or it built up power over time.”

“And Malfoy’s the catalyst . . .”

“Probably, if your finding about the blood holds true. You said you tried to find information about similar spells without much luck?As far as intent, I can say that based on my experience, there would almost certainly be motivation behind this curse, even if it has been lost over time. On the day before it began, you regretted what you did to Draco Malfoy, right?”

“Yeah, I dunno, I think I vaguely wished the day hadn’t happened.”

“My thought is that—well, this may be obvious—but whoever cast the curse wanted to go back in time because of something they regretted.”

Instinctively, Harry had guessed regret played a part in the reason time reset. Although, he had assumed it was his own regret, not someone else’s.

“Any number of factors can set off a curse. Maybe the key is narrowing those factors down, figuring out who cast it.” He studied Harry, whose expression had darkened with doubt. “Once you have more clues, such as the curse’s parameters and descriptions of its effects, write them down to bring to me, and based on that I’ll find you the right person to talk to.”

Even though he still had more to figure out, Harry knew he had been right to talk to Bill about the loop. His best chance at ending it was to study those who could have played a role in the hiccup in time.

* * *

With the help of the Marauders’ Map as well as the passage of what he guessed had been two months in total, the world of May 8th had nearly opened up to Harry. He knew approximately who would be where when, as well as what they were doing. Before the time loop, he used the map only when he needed to see what Malfoy was up to. Over the past sixty-odd days, everyone’s actions became of interest as he searched for a clue of something unusual that could help him figure out how to end the time loop.

Nearly every day, Harry watched the tiny pairs of dots and names move and interact. Ron and Hermione were in the common room with many other Gryffindors, who were also dispersed throughout the dorm. There was a predictable flow of people when certain people would go the bathroom or leave for dinner. Harry followed a different set of dots each time, just to be aware of potential changes and if there was anything worth investigating under his invisibility cloak.

While under his cloak, he caught Astoria Greengrass—younger sister of Daphne Greengrass—talking with her friends about Malfoy with a sort of curiosity that made him suspect she fancied him. From other conversations he had overheard, the underground cult of admirers had grown this year as rumors among Slytherins grew. He tried to understand Malfoy’s appeal from the perspective of Astoria and her friends and ended up with fragments of comments:

“My glasses tell me he’s looking glum today—”

“He’s still gorgeous. So mysterious _—_ ”

“. . . mysterious, or a dick?”

“When I first talked to him, he was really nice. Charming, even.”

When Astoria talked to her few Pureblood Ravenclaw friends, though, her tone was much different.

“If you’re in danger from the Dark Lord once he has control of the country, I’ll vouch for you.”

The conversations filling the day often made Harry cringe—the failed jokes, the whispered judgments, the petty gossip. It made him want to find every bad interaction he’d ever had, crumple them all up, throw them out, and start anew.

“She’s a slut,” a Gryffindor whispered about a Ravenclaw seventh-year named Rashida Sauer, loud enough that she heard as she passedby with her friends. Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot were walking with Rashida and while Boot merely winced, Goldstein replied immediately, “Watch your virginal mouth, Laurel. No one gives a damn about your opinion.”

Laurel flushed, but managed to pull off a slightly disgusted expression before continuing on with her friend. Harry had renewed respect for Goldstein, who had already proven himself in Dumbledore’s Army.

It was in the mundane that people showed their true nature. When this thinking made him too judgmental, he revised his sentiment: disposition was revealed by the mundane, while potential was revealed by the exceptional, the actions he’d seen once or twice in these seventy days. Although Romilda Vane often said things that made Harry want to grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake, a few weeks earlier she had invited a second year eating alone to sit with her and her friends. Moving beyond the times she had said unpleasant things, he could make peace with Romilda for her occasional acts of kindness—they revealed more about who she could be later in life than who she was at her core.

If he paid close enough attention, people became more complex, dimensional, even those he had known well since first year.

After class one day, Harry chose to watch the dots of Dean and Seamus, since they had been together the time he beat up Malfoy. The two moved through the corridor, down sets of staircases to the third floor, and entered one of the classrooms.

“Odd . . .” muttered Harry. He waited for a professor to enter as well, or for them to move around, but instead, they stopped in one place, dots and names overlapping, and were still.

Harry reached into his pocket for his invisibility cloak and pulled it over himself, stomach sinking. Was something wrong? Was one of them injured? Had they been hexed?

He hurried up the stairs and crossed to the classroom. The door was closed, and probably locked. _“Alohomora,”_ whispered Harry, casting the spell and opening the door in one fluid movement.

Dean and Seamus whipped around to look at the doorway, which to them looked empty.

Harry had planned to creep inside, but instead remained frozen. They had been _snogging_.

“That’s odd,” said Dean, voice unsteady. “You locked it, didn’t you?”

“I—I must’ve forgot.” Seamus unraveled himself from Dean’s hold and the two went to investigate.

Harry stepped back into the corridor and decided to reveal himself. Surely the Slytherins had hexed them as a joke, and they would need his help, whether they knew it or not. He walked a few paces down the corridor and removed his cloak. A second later, Seamus peered around the corner.

“Harry! Er, what’s going on? Did you open the door just now?”

“Someone’s slipped you a love potion. Can you help me—have you seen any Slytherins around?”

“A love potion?” Seamus scratched his head. “Er, what do you mean?”

“Look, it’s alright, you don’t have to explain, I know why you were—er, why you’re together right now.”

Seamus flushed. “That’s . . . actually . . .” He turned to look at Dean, who cleared his throat.

“Harry, why don’t you come in the room?” Dean glanced at Harry’s wand. Normally, his height didn’t seem threatening, but something about the seriousness of his gaze made him seem seven feet tall.

Harry held his ground. “How can I tell if you’ve under the influence or not?”

“We haven’t had any potions, Harry. Look, you’ve got to promise you won’t tell anyone, or we’ll have to . . . I dunno, try erasing your memory.”

Harry felt weak with shock. “You haven’t—?” He looked between their sheepish expressions. “But—but you—Dean, what about Ginny?” A small thrill rose up in the pit of his stomach, a hope that it had all been a lie, and Dean wouldn’t stand in his way if he pursued her . . .

“Merlin’s sake, keep your voice down! Fine, come in. I suppose you ought to know, seeing as we’re roommates and all.”

The awkwardness in the room was almost unbearable. Although Harry had generally found standing to be easy every other day of his life, all of a sudden he had forgotten how to do it normally. Should he lean against a desk? Cross his arms?

Seamus broke the silence. “Dean and I, we’re not dating, but sometimes we . . .”

“Er, I understand.” Harry didn’t meet Seamus’ eyes.

For some reason, he felt more comfortable looking at Dean, who said, “You have to promise not to tell anyone. No one knows, except Ginny, and she swore to keep it to herself. I don’t want to force you to make an Unbreakable Vow—so can we trust you?”

“Yeah. Yes.” More than anything, Harry wanted to get out of the conversation, but he knew he would kick himself later if he didn’t ask at least one question. “How long has this been going on?”

The pair glanced at each other. “The beginning of the school year,” said Seamus.

“Seriously, Dean? All year?” Apparently, his jealousy had been wasted on Dean.

“I was confused!” He did look genuinely sorry, at least. “Don’t worry, Ginny’s already gone off on me and I know it wasn’t fair to her. Can we just move on?”

“Right, it’s none of my business. I’m just going to head back to the dorm . . .”

Dean stepped forward. “Harry, you really can’t tell anyone. Please. We could be expelled.”

“What? You could?”

Seamus crossed his arms. “Well, we assume so.”

“Has anyone been expelled for something like this before?”

“We haven’t looked into it, but it’s possible. I mean, we’re not the first blokes here to be this way, I’m sure of it.”

They looked at each other, and Dean started laughing. “There’s a rather crude carving on my bedpost. It’s quite funny, actually.” He cleared his throat. “At least, we found it funny.”

Desperate for an excuse to leave, Harry said, “Er, I’ll go look for it, then,” and started for the door.

“Hang on, Harry,” said Dean, “One more thing—this won’t affect our chances of making the team next year, will it?”

Harry turned. “Why would this affect your Quidditch abilities?”

“Not my abilities, of course, I meant—I dunno, if you’d be uncomfortable, or whatever. But I swear, there wouldn’t be any problems. And don’t tell Ron, I know he’d—just keep it to yourself.”

Harry nodded. “You can trust me.” He felt as though he should say something else before leaving. “It doesn’t make a difference.” 

Back in the boys’ dorm, Harry studied Dean’s bedposts, which were marked by decades of etchings from past students. The carving in question _was_ crude; there were two stick figures inappropriately placed next to each other, labeled with a term Harry didn’t understand but recognized, referencing something about dogs. His gaze traveled down the post, over unintelligible words and scribbles. Close to where the mattress met the wood, there was a single word, topped with jagged antlers: PRONGS.

Harry sucked in a breath. This had been his father’s bed. He looked between the handwriting of this and the other inscription—the letters shared between the words (O, G, and S) matched. It was clear from the anatomy that the two stick figures were men, but why on earth would his father draw something like that? Had he known someone who was interested in other boys that way? 

Or he was reading too much into it. There were times when boys his age made inappropriate jokes with each other, or were prone to being more affectionate after drinking. No one ever took it seriously, though now he had more difficulty understanding _why_ they joked like that. 

A thought occurred to him. What if the regret that had caused the loop had something to do with someone revealing they fancied the same sex? Or being found out, like he found out about Dean and Seamus? Maybe afterwards they had told Myrtle about it in the girl’s bathroom . . . If they couldn’t use a memory charm because word got out, then the only solution would be to reverse the event. Regardless, if the time loop had worked before, it would be like the event never happened, and there would be no regret to discover. How would Harry even go about investigating something like that, then?

The next morning, he grabbed the glasses from the side of his book, put them on, and looked up—and his eyes happened to fall upon Dean sitting on his bed, shirtless, yawning with his arms stretched high. Embarrassment flooded in him, and he looked at Seamus to gauge his reaction. Sure enough, Seamus was openly ogling Dean, and looked away just before Dean noticed. Something stirred in Harry that he couldn’t quite name.

At breakfast, Harry decided the best person to talk with that day was Luna, who had already helped with the first snogging incident. He nearly bailed when he saw her name drifting to the library on the Marauder’s Map, knowing she would say something he didn’t want to hear. Once he got over this, however, he went to the library, pulled her aside, and explained his situation up until the day before.

“. . . And now, there’s something I discovered—I can’t believe I never noticed, and looking back, I suppose I should have. I don’t know what to believe anymore. If I missed something like this, what else could I have overlooked, you know?”

Luna shrugged and smiled. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but you have a lot on your mind, so it doesn’t surprise me that you might have missed something.”

“If I could tell you what it was, I would, but I promised to keep it a secret.”

“That’s alright, Harry, you should keep your promise. I had an idea, though, of how you could find out more, and stop me if I’ve already suggested this. Bill said that someone could have made the time loop curse due to regret, right? Well, the castle has many secrets, and perhaps if you looked for clues, you would find something.”

“I don’t know where else I can look.”

“The library, student records, diaries—wherever people recorded their memories.”

As soon as Luna said “memories,” Harry thought of the Pensieve. But to his knowledge, only Dumbledore and Snape used it, so that wouldn’t help. “Where could I find student records or diaries?”

“I’m sure the Headmaster has student records somewhere, and as for diaries . . . maybe they’re hiding in a place people thought they wouldn’t be found.”

The Room of Requirement. Surely it must contain at least a few diaries among the stacks of books. Thanking Luna, Harry hurried out of the library, put on his cloak, and headed to the seventh floor corridor. After his third time passing the usual spot, a door appeared. Harry slipped inside, at once in awe of the the sheer size of the room and the number of objects it contained. He weaved through the pathways of chairs and broken furniture to the thousands of books teetering upwards, kept from falling with magic.

Harry took several steps back, unsure of what to expect. _“Accio diaries!”_ The great pile of books came toppling down as dozens of thin volumes shot out toward Harry. He ducked out of the way just in time for them to whizz by, landing several meters behind him.

Ears ringing from the sound of the crash, Harry slowly approached the books. If he could find a diary about someone who regretted a choice they made . . . 

The diary closest to Harry had been written from 1879 to 1881. At first, he read it diligently, scanning every page, then he resorted to skimming, before closing the book altogether.

Recalling the spell Luna used to search for specific words within a text, he waved his wand and said, _“Astendo regret!”_

Several of the books flopped weakly. He tried again. _“ASTENDO REGRET!”_ This time, at least twenty of the diaries sprung open. He tore off some parchment from one of the unresponsive diaries to use as bookmarks, then read the first few pages of each one, half-expecting to find another book by the Half-Blood Prince.

Some of the diaries were anonymous, making it nearly impossible to discern an author. Additionally, the illegible handwriting of some gave him a headache after concentrating too hard, so he put them aside for later. One of the books caught his eye for the rough circularcarving on its cover that reminded him of the carvings on Dean’s bedpost. The inside cover contained the initials “ML.” Had any of his father’s friends had the initials ML? L for Lupin, but the M was— _Moony_. Was this . . . ? Harry slipped a bookmark in with the page that mentioned regret as he flipped through the beginning. Initially he couldn’t tell if the Marauders were featured since Lupin used pseudonyms, but figured out after reading further that James was Pots, Sirius was Red, and Peter was Wanda for whatever reason. Closer to the end, after they had become Animagi, Lupin switched to their nicknames of Prongs, Padfoot, and Wormtail. Turning back to where he had bookmarked, Harry read the page that mentioned regret.

 

_1 November, 1974_

_Last night, on Halloween, Pots had us stage an Auror training exercise using appearance-altering transfiguration and potions._

 

Harry’s attention was piqued. So they knew they wanted to be Aurors that long?

 

_I was a convincing girl, apparently. A bloke asked me to dance. We had fun for a bit, but then he kissed me. My first kiss, and it was with a_ _bloke!_ _The thing is, I actually liked it. I don’t regret it at all. The Polyjuice Potion must have done something, made me attracted to him. At least, I assume that’s the case. Red spotted us and after he and I talked, I could tell he doesn’t believe me. Anyhow, since he and I had shared a bed last June, I’ve been considering things. I don’t think I’m gay, I would know. I shouldn’t have to wonder, because it’s not like that with girls._

_That’s all, I think._

 

Shared a bed? What was that supposed to mean? Harry mentally reviewed possible signs that could’ve tipped him off to any such inclinations in Sirius and Lupin, except he didn’t know what he should be looking for. No, this didn’t change anything. Plenty of people have some strange memory of the sort from childhood—sudden inexplicable attraction, or curiosity due to hormones—but it didn’t have to affect their adult lives. Heart pounding, Harry read the last entry in the diary, which took place over a year later.

 

_28 March, 1976_

_This will be my final entry. The diary has become too much about the others, and I find myself constantly anxious they’ll find it and I’ll regret writing anything in the first place._

_But I have to get this off my chest. The boys are truly kind, I don’t deserve them. As Animagi, they were able to keep me from self-injury. Before all of this, I think part of me doubted how sincerely they liked me. This was supposed to make me certain, if it hadn’t been for what Padfoot did. I can tell Prongs is using him, so how can I tell he’s not using me? He’s a bloody idiot, so I suppose if he hasn’t figured out how I feel, I shouldn’t be surprised._

 

How _had_ Lupin felt? If this was how vague all of the diary entries would be, he may be out of luck. Putting the question aside, he began to sift through the other diaries, wishing he’d brought Hermione along for this, especially since the tedium wouldn’t bother her.

The regret written in the other diaries ranged in gravity from accidentally jinxing close friends to skipping important papers. On the more serious end, one girl wrote that she wished she had visited her best friend while she was sick instead of putting it off to take her O.W.L.s, since the friend had nearly died. Another regretted telling her friend she fancied him. Love and regret seemed to go hand in hand. None of the stories mentioned anything about the girls’ bathroom or a specific time-turning spell, though there were vague sentiments about wishing to turn back time. And none of the diaries belonged to current students, so the only way to follow up on the leads was to track them down and talk in person, assuming they were still alive.

Of the writers, Tristan Zimmer and Mercury Yu would likely be the easiest to find, since they had gone to school within the last fifty years and mentioned wishing there was some spell to change what they had done. Zimmer cursed the Quaffle before a Quidditch match, causing his team to be disqualified from the House Cup; Yu had let her naïve friend fall prey to a vampire. While Yu said nothing that suggested she actually tried to go back in time, Zimmer said he wished he had a Time-Turner. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The Marauder’s Map, laid out beside the diaries, caught his attention. He stared at Seamus and Dean’s dots as they headed to the third floor classroom. He realized he was tapping the page rather aggressively and stopped. The pairs of same-sex students jumped out at him, making him wonder how many were just friends, and how many were more.

Harry felt silly considering it, but there was no one around to judge what he was doing, so he went ahead and tapped the map. “Were any of you q—homosexual?”

The grounds on the parchment melted away and words spread across the page.

 

_Homosexual. Adjective. As in “gay.” Example: Sirius could have any girl he wants but prefers blokes; he wears leather and is often caught staring at Remus’ arse. See fig. 1._

 

A small, smirking illustration of Sirius appeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Image description for chapter illustration: Six quadrilaterals of different colors float in dark, neutral space. Two overlap, with a large red rectangle us partially eclipsing a smaller dark blue rectangle.]


	6. Three Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter culminates in a tame version of a game you may know. More abstractly, Harry now has three choices with his own life—suppress the shameful question in the back of his mind, flirt with this new possibility, or embrace his wanting to know. Is he bi?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the later update—this took longer than usual to finish and I wanted to post this weekend, so please forgive some typos, I do hope to go back and proofread more thoroughly later (and will then delete this disclaimer). Image description is at the end notes per usual!

Harry held his breath. Were they joking, or was Sirius actually .  . . ? He stood up and began to pace, unsettled and unsure of what to do. If Sirius had been gay, how could Harry have not known? Now that he thought about it, apart from the time Sirius showed off for some girls in Snape’s memory, he didn’t exactly have evidence that his godfather had been interested in women. He’d not married, not had a girlfriend. Although, Harry had no recollection of anyone whispering of scandal relating to the sexuality of the _notorious Sirius Black_. He could fathom his ignorance about Seamus and Dean being gay, or whatever they wanted to call it, but not knowing about Sirius?

He would have to find a way to ask Lupin. It might be uncomfortable, and it would undoubtedly embarrass him, but those feelings would fade with time in the loop. Pain, on the other hand, would not fade unless he did something about it. Ultimately, he preferred to face his ignorance and learn about Sirius’ past over clinging to a false version of him.

On the following morning, early enough to avoid being interrupted by someone in the common room, Harry used Floo Powder to talk to Lupin.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” asked Lupin, crouching down to get a better look at him.

“Nothing.” Harry couldn’t bring himself to elaborate.

“Has something happened? Are you okay?”

“Yes. Well, I’m not in danger or anything, but I have to ask you something. And I wanted to do so in person . . .”

Lupin exhaled, and embers flared up. “I can no longer safely enter Hogwarts. If this is truly an emergency, I could meet you in the Hog’s Head. You would have to sneak out. Can you at least tell me what this is about?”

“It’s about you and Sirius.”

“Harry, I am sure when we see each other again, I can regale you with tales of our youth, or you can write me. But—”

“I have the Marauder’s Map, and it told me that Sirius was,” he hesitated and lowered his voice, “homosexual.”

“How did it . . . ?” Lupin sighed again, and Harry imagined he was remembering some mischievous decision made by Sirius or James as they made the map. “You wanted to meet about that?”

Harry glared at Lupin’s face as best he could. “Just—I’ll explain when we’re there. And it has to be tonight. Please.”

“All right.” Perhaps it was asking too much of Lupin to talk about it. But Harry didn’t have the luxury of time for Lupin to brace himself, prepare what he wanted to say. “In that case, you can meet me in the Hog’s Head at seven, but we will Apparate back to Grimmauld Place.”

“I’ll see you then.”

That evening, Harry told Ron and Hermione he had to take care of something, not bothering to waste time explaining, and used the cloak to get to Hogsmeade undetected. Lupin arrived at seven sharp and after an awkward greeting they Disapparated.

Being back in Sirius’ home, Harry became too distracted by the hollow ringing in his chest to feel self-conscious about the reason for his visit. He gratefully accepted the tea Lupin offered him as an excuse to collect himself.

“How is school?”

“School’s fine.” In the time leading up to their meeting, Harry considered telling Lupin about the time loop, but decided it wouldn’t do him much good, and would possibly delay getting the information he wanted.

Lupin looked at him and seemed to read that Harry would stay closed off until they were able to talk about what he came for. “So what is all this about Sirius, then?”

“I was looking for something and I found a room with a lot of random objects including this book and—it was your diary. You probably tried to get rid of it.”

Lupin sucked the air in through his teeth. “That’s an unlikely coincidence.”

Harry shrugged and crossed his arms. “Well, I’m being honest.”

“I will take you on your word.”

Over the course of the time loop, Harry had noticed over two dozen signs people were shutting down when he pushed them too hard for answers. Exhibiting four of these signs, Remus frowned so hard his mouth curled down as he blinked more than usual, his shoulders tense and hands pressed tightly together.

“I flipped to the last entry of your journal—sorry, I know I shouldn’t have pried—and in it you wrote that you might have feelings for Sirius. Or blokes in general. And then on a whim I asked the Marauder’s Map if any of you—the Marauders—were homosexual, and I didn’t think it would work, but it did, and it showed me a picture of Sirius.” Harry already felt more relieved telling Lupin this, despite his increasing anticipation to find out what it all meant.

“Okay. Lesson learned: burn your diaries if you would rather them remain private. And as for the Map—I was reminded of how much of _us_ it contained when I first confiscated it from you in your third year.It was only a matter of time before something personal was revealed to you . . . To answer your question, yes, Sirius was gay.” Lupin looked at Harry to gauge his reaction, then added, “We were together when he died. Er, we had been together since school.”

“Together?”

Lupin cleared his throat. “Yes. Tonks is the only one who knows, though she figured it out accidentally; he and I kept quiet about it.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Harry’s throat felt constricted.

Lupin hesitated. “I suppose he was afraid of losing you.”

“He’s dead now, so a fat lot of good that did.”

Lupin looked away. “You’re right.” His face scrunched up slightly, as though debating what to say next.

“Why didn’t _you_ tell me? We spent all of this time together third year and for the first time I felt close to my parents. Then I had to find out by eavesdropping—not from you—that Sirius had been friends with my parents and had supposedly betrayed them. After meeting him, I thought that maybe things would be different, maybe I’d get to know about my family. It turns out people are still hiding things from me. But I’m not a kid anymore.”

“I know you’re not. Sirius hid it well; it helped that girls gravitated toward him. He even put up posters of scantily-clad Muggle women in his bedroom. Granted, this was mainly to annoy his parents . . . best not to get into that.”

“Was he ashamed of it, then? He assumed I’d react poorly before giving me a chance.”

“This part of our life—it’s complicated, Harry. There’s a risk in disclosing that kind of information, even to those we care about. People like us—it’s not exactly easy for most people to accept. It may seem important, but really—”

“You’re saying you’re gay, too?”

“I am . . . bisexual. It’s not the same as being gay, it means you can be interested in people regardless of gender.”

Harry already had trouble wrapping his mind around Sirius liking the same sex; this was a bit over his head. “My dad knew, right?”

Lupin nodded. “He and Peter knew. Peter didn’t know Sirius and I were together, though, because he didn’t quite understand. Turns out that was for the best.”

“So he—my dad—was okay with it?”

“Yes. He was supportive.” Lupin chuckled, remembering. “He really cared about us, and for him to come to terms with our sexuality at such a young age, and in the seventies no less . . . Of course, the eighties were harder in some ways, but Sirius missed most of that . . .”

As Lupin’s eyes drifted with the memories, Harry was left alone. He wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps by accepting Lupin, but his questions had to be answered first. “If you and Sirius were together, then why did he agree to switch Secret Keepers?”

Lupin winced. “At that stage in the War, when he and James made that choice, Sirius no longer trusted me. Trusting Peter instead cost them their lives. It nearly cost us our relationship, too, if we hadn’t forgiven each other. Him for believing the stereotypes I had fought to live against and me for not having faith that he was innocent.”

Harry nodded. There were too many questions swimming in his head, so he found the one causing the most waves and asked it: “This may sound a bit thick, but how do you know you were . . . ? When did you know what you were . . . ?”

“It is different for everyone. For your mum and I—er, I mean—”

“What’s my mum got to do with it?”

Lupin pressed his lips together, ready to console him. “She was bisexual, too.”

“Were you not going to tell me that?” Harry gaped at him.

“I’m telling you now, am I not? We never discussed—I have no idea if it is my place to tell you, though I suppose if she were alive, Lily would have wanted you to know, eventually.” Lupin ran a hand through his gray hair. “Anyhow, she and I came to terms with it later than Sirius. I felt confused throughout most of my time as a student, as you undoubtedly gathered from my diary, primarily because I didn’t see how I could be interested in both sexes.”

“But, er, how come you’re bisexual in the first place?”

“I don’t know. It could be socialization, it could be the way you’re born—”

“Meaning, one of your parents was bisexual, too? Like how magic is passed down?”

Lupin laughed. “I don’t think so. Maybe one day we will know. For now, it doesn’t really matter, I think. It could be the person, too. I suppose, if I hadn’t been with Sirius, would I have come to terms with my interest in men? Certainly not as young as I was at the time . . .” He noticed Harry had become solemn. “What is it?”

“Just—if my mum and dad had raised me, they’d have explained all of this.”

Lupin patted Harry’s hand. “I am truly sorry. I wish they could be here, too.”

“So if Sirius hadn’t been imprisoned, would he and you have raised me?”

A small smile flickered across Lupin’s lips. “Even if Dumbledore had other plans, we would have. The Wizengamot would have granted Sirius custody as your rightful guardian over a Muggle family.”

What would his life have been like, had he been raised by Sirius and Lupin? He pictured them recounting tales of their school days, taking him to Diagon Alley on the weekends, laughing at the little mishaps caused by Harry’s early experiments with magic, inviting friends over from the wizarding community . . . perhaps gaining a bit of James’ arrogance from knowing he was the Boy Who Lived from the start. He would’ve had two dads and not a mother, but he didn’t have either with the Dursleys.

“And I would’ve known you were together, if you had raised me?”

“Yes, you would have.” Lupin’s smile faded. “But Harry, spending too long considering the life you could have lived will only make your reality harder to accept. Will you promise me that no matter what happens in this war, you will try your best to live as though there is another version of yourself somewhere, wishing desperately to trade places with you? I cannot make the pain you feel over Sirius’ death go away. I can only hope you will take that pain and use it to more completely love the people who are alive. After Sirius died, I convinced myself I was incapable of loving again, and yet . . . it may be possible after all, and that frightens me.”

Harry didn’t want to speak, for fear of betraying his emotion.

“I’m sorry, I’ve gone on a tangent, haven’t I? It is something I seldom speak candidly about . . . I got carried away.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Thank you.”

“And I’m sorry you’re having these questions at such a tumultuous time. Considering everything you are dealing with, I’m surprised at how concerned you are with this. Life goes on, doesn’t it? When your father and I were at Hogwarts, it was remarkably similar. Even with the war, we still cared about the little dramas of social life, which seemed vastly important at the time.”

Despite the threat of Voldemort looming over him, Harry couldn’t stop caring about the lives of the people that were important to him. That was how he would stay sane in the time loop, and how wanted to live beyond it.

With two hours left before he should return to Hogwarts, there was ample time to explain the time loop, so Harry rattled off his usual synopsis, answering any questions Lupin had along the way. At the end, he asked, “Er, so, did you ever cast a curse in Myrtle’s bathroom when you were at Hogwarts? Or know someone who may have done something like that?”

“Someone who regretted something they did, correct?” After Harry nodded, he continued, “No, none of us did. I doubt we ever went into Myrtle’s bathroom; we had plenty of other hideaways. And most of our disputes with other students were drawn out—nothing drastic happened that was worth reversing time by a day—or they worked out in our favor. I certainly never attempted any such thing, and I doubt that anyone I knew did, either. In many respects, we kept to our own bubble, so dramas among other students flew under our radar.”

“Do you think something like this could have been unintentional, though?”

“Could have. Even then, the person most likely knew enough about the effects of the spell in order to break out of the loop—until now, time continued as usual. Accidental magic typically occurs in children and in less experienced wizards. Rarely is accidental magic powerful enough to . . .” He looked at Harry. “You’ve heard this all before, haven’t you?”  
Shrugging, Harry said, “More or less.”

Lupin appeared to study the glass in his hand, but his mind was elsewhere. “Instead of focusing on restoring time, try to make peace with it. Find something else to do. If your brain is not constantly fixed on one issue, perhaps a solution will arise organically.”

Something to do . . . Luna had given him similar advice. He had been improving his skills in Charms and Transfiguration, which alone was hardly enough to occupy him. For the time being, he found that socializing more with people other than Ron and Hermione helped him escape the monotony of the loop.

At breakfast the next day, he looked around the Great Hall as he had many times before, trying to find someone new to interact with. Down the Gryffindor table, Colin Creevey sat with a couple friends, chatting away with his mouth full of food. Over the past year, they had only spoken a few times, which was odd given the boy’s past obsession with him.

Harry got up and approached Colin, who smiled at him when he noticed. “Alright, Colin? Er, you can finish chewing. How would you like to go for a walk up to the Black Lake?”

Everyone within earshot stared at Colin, who had become better at keeping his cool in Harry’s presence. “Yeah, sure. Now?”

“Er, before dinner? Half four?”

“Okay! I’ll meet you in the common room, then.”

That afternoon, they headed onto the grounds together. To Harry’s surprise, it felt natural; they talked about Quidditch and the magic Harry had learned that year (despite his efforts to veer away from his accomplishments). A sneaking suspicion crept into his mind, a possible explanation for Colin’s past obsession with him and how suddenly he’d become distant.

“Colin, there’s something I should ask . . . Do you fancy me?”

Stopping dead in his tracks, Colin stared at Harry. “W-What? Fancy you? No no _no_ no no, I never—I don’t think of you that way! Oh God, is there a rumor about it? Has someone harassed you? I’ll set the record straight, don’t worry!”

_Straight_. Harry suppressed a chuckle. “No one’s said anything, as far as I know. I just had to be sure. You’ve kept more of a distance this year, so I was curious why . . .”

“It’s nothing like that! It’s because . . . I know how much I annoyed you. Before last year, I never wanted to admit it to myself, until you went to the Ministry without Dumbledore’s Army and nearly died and I knew that whatever you were going through had nothing to do with me.”

Colin’s hurt expression took Harry aback. “I didn’t want to put your life in danger.”

“I’m not saying I was upset that you—no, you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re _separate_ , is all. At some point, I no longer wanted to idolize you like I had before.”

“What do you mean by ‘separate’?” Harry changed direction so they could head back to the castle.

“Please don’t take offense, what I mean is you have two really close friends, and . . . everyone else is kept at an arm’s length.”

“I can’t be friends with everyone, Colin. I don’t think I’m much different from anyone else.”

Colin shrugged, looking like he might cry for a moment, the epitome of remorse. “I understand that. You might know I myself only have three really good friends. A lot of people are jealous of you, Ron, and Hermione.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Some people call you the Golden Trio. Er, well, the Slytherins may have started doing it to mock you. Then the fourth-year Gryffindors picked it up, I think.”

“I like the sound of that: the Golden Trio. You don’t suppose the Slytherin who started it was Draco Malfoy, do you?”

“Actually, now that you mention it, I’m almost certain it was him.”

“I’m not at all surprised . . .”

As though to prove he could spend time with people other than Ron and Hermione, the next day Harry found Luna and asked her whether she wanted to practice old DA spells. She agreed, and they went to the Room of Requirement, where they practiced making disguises. Eventually, Harry explained what had happened to him (time loop, love potion, boredom) and brought up Dean, Seamus, and—

“Most recently, I found out my mum liked men and women.”

“Really? How?”

“I talked with Lupin.”

“They were in school together?”

“Yeah, they were both in Gryffindor, in the same year. Actually, they were both bisexual.”

“It means a lot that Lupin felt comfortable telling you.”

By instinct and despite his better judgement, Harry asked, “Have you ever fancied someone of the same sex?”

Luna tapped her chin. “Yes.”

Harry nearly laughed. He was beyond surprise at this point, it was more that he was right to wonder and that he was only finding it out now.

“But I never just fancy one person at once, you know?”

Harry had moved singularly from Cho to Ginny, two people in his entire time at Hogwarts, so he didn’t know, not really. “Who have you fancied?”

Luna swept her pale blonde hair over her shoulder. “I haven’t told you yet?”

“No. I—I haven’t talked to you much about any of this.”

“I tend to fancy people who’ve become my friends. After we’re friends for a while, though, and I find they’re not interested, I move on.”

Shame and pity rushed over Harry. “How can you be sure no one’s felt anything back?” He wished he’d felt something for Luna in the past so he could reassure her.

“If someone makes the effort to be my friend, I don’t want to jeopardize that. Especially when it’s someone of the same sex.”

“So . . . have you fancied Ginny, then?” Out of the conversations he’d had over the last several weeks, he finally felt a burst of understanding when Luna nodded. _He_ fancied Ginny; why shouldn’t someone else feel the same, no matter their sex?

“Ginny’s wonderful, very kind, headstrong. I don’t fancy her anymore, though.”

Although he felt awful for knowing it didn’t matter because Ginny was probably unable to return her feelings, it at least prevented him from feeling jealous. “Have you told anyone before?”

Luna was about to shake her head, then paused. “My dad. There’s really no one to tell here.”

Given Luna’s uncanny ability to share her opinions and keenly observe the world, it seemed dubious that she had never told anyone at school about her attraction to girls. But she had so few friends, and of them no one she was as close to as Harry was to Hermione and Ron. Moreover, this was different than pointing out unspoken truths about others or made-up magical creatures: there might be consequences if anyone found out about her sexuality.

“Have you told Neville?”

Luna shook her head. “I don’t think he’d understand. He only likes girls, I’m almost certain.”

A thought occurred to Harry. “Why don’t you try telling him tonight? Once the loop’s ended, I can tell you how he reacted and you can decide then if you want him to know.”

“The Ministry has a history of tracking people with ‘unnatural’ inclinations. There’s a secret department in the Ministry that uses glasses to detect whether people are queer or not and forces people to change their gender to suit their sexuality. Telling Neville would be risky, but I’m less nervous knowing he won’t remember whatever I tell him.”

Harry stared at her, caught between mortification and disbelief. Ignoring the churning of his stomach, he said, “Truthfully, I doubt he’ll have a problem with it. And he would never tell the Ministry, assuming there is such a secret department. You’re his friend, so it shouldn’t affect your friendship.”

Luna didn’t respond. Maybe she disagreed. “Can I ask you something, Harry?”

“Er, sure.”

“How do you know you only like girls?”

Ice shot through Harry’s veins. “I just know. I’ve never wanted to . . . I would know, wouldn’t I? I fancy someone, anyhow. A girl.”

Luna studied at the space around his head. “Hm. Have I checked you for Wrackspurts recently?”

“Not that I . . . Why, what are they, again?”

“Wrackspurts are invisible, they make your brain go fuzzy.”

“I think I’m okay.”

“They could be preventing you from keeping an open mind.”

Harry sighed and gritted his teeth. “I’m fine. I’ve already had to be open-minded, and I’ve had too much time to think.”

Luna blinked as if his tone hadn’t changed. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s only that I can’t imagine being attracted to only one sex.”

“That’s how you feel, then. But even you’ve figured it out by now, right? Remus certainly knew by sixth year, Dean and Seamus know, so what’s the point in thinking about it? If I were bisexual, I would know.” He looked at her, imploring her to nod or show she agreed. “I would know, right?”

“Someone could have experienced everything I have and still question themselves. Misinterpreting yourself is part of growing up. As long as you aren’t miserable with who you are and are honest about how you feel, you don’t need to have it all figured out.”

Harry wished he could agree with her. “Why don’t you get Neville in an hour, if you’re ready? I’ll fetch my cloak in the meantime.”

That evening, Luna and Neville met in the greenhouses. Golden light filtered through the glass, at once lightening the atmosphere and adding weight to what Luna planned to say.

“Can I tell you something if you promise to keep it a secret?”

Neville looked at her, smiling, sincere. “Sure, what is it? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. We’ve been friends for a while, now, and I trust you enough to tell you that I can be attracted to girls as well as boys. People, really, regardless of gender.”

“Oh.” Neville slowly ran a hand over his jaw. “Er, so what’s that mean, exactly?”

“I don’t fancy anyone right now, but if I did, it could be someone of any gender.”

“Oh. Alright, then.” The awkwardness Neville usually exuded had increased. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because you’re one of my best friends. I want to be honest with you.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Not really, other than my dad. You’re the first of my friends to know.”

He relaxed at this, and the flush in his face began to fade. “Can I hug you?”

“Of course.” They embraced, Luna standing on her toes.

“You can tell me anything, yeah? It’s not fair—you’re so kind, you deserve kindness in return. I care about you.”

Luna nodded, smiling when they parted so he would understand the tears in her eyes. “The same to you.”

They were walking now. Neville cast his gaze about the greenhouse, struggling to find what to say. “I think I only like girls.”

“Oh? What makes you think so?”

He was nearly tripped by a mischievous plant. “It’s—I never had to question it. Other boys don’t make me the way I’ve felt with,” hestopped to move a few pots into alignment, “er, with other girls. If I could explain it any better, I would. Maybe it’s like—since I was young, I’ve known I prefer tarts to pies. No, that’s a rubbish analogy, isn’t it? You like girls, too, so . . . have you always known?”

Luna seemed to be aware that looking directly at Neville made him more nervous, so she allowed her gaze to wander. “When I was still quite young, my mother brought home these fashion magazines from Paris. My dad wanted to get design ideas for the paper. He gave me the magazines to keep when he was done and I spent hours flipping through them, looking at the beautiful people. Being homeschooled and relatively isolated, I hadn’t quite realized that feeling a certain way toward girls was taboo. But that was when I knew I fancied girls as well as boys. A woman in one of the magazines had long brown hair and dark eyes, and she wore a beautiful peach-colored dress . . . That I even remember her after so long says something, doesn’t it?”

They sat down on a bench in the shaded end of the greenhouse to avoid squinting in the intense light of the setting sun. After sharing a comfortable silence, Luna rested her head on Neville’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For being my friend.”

Harry left them alone and waited by their agreed-upon meeting place, a huge orange potted plant. He wondered if Luna noticed how Neville acted around her; that his affection approached something more than friendship.

After a few minutes, she poked her head around the corner. “He’s left.”

“How do you think it went?”

“Good. I’m happy.” Luna beamed at Harry as he took off his cloak. “I doubt Neville understands quite yet, but he can at least relate to feeling different. He’s kind, too. Not everyone would react as well as he reacted.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

Before they parted, Luna left him with one last thing to consider: “You don’t have to force _knowing_ , Harry. There will be a right time to know about yourself, just as there’s a right time to know about others.”

Waiting to know was easy when he was too preoccupied with dodging Death Eaters and surviving the everyday to be overwhelmed by existential thoughts. As time passed in the loop, however, what else was there but to become _in the know_?

Now that it was on his mind, Harry discovered more people who were attracted to the same sex. Before, he couldn’t see the pieces of the puzzle; once their edges came into focus, he was able to fit the previously overlooked clues and suggestions together.

Either way, who people fancied had nothing to do with him, or at least he didn’t care from a judgmental perspective.

Professor Sinistra was the first person to be puzzled out after Luna. She received a letter at breakfast and throughout the day would slip it out of her pocket to reread it. Hoping it was a lead, Harry waited for her to leave it on her office desk before skimming its contents. His fingers went numb on the parchment—it was a love letter from an American witch she was apparently dating.

The more heightened his radar became, the harder it was to discern what qualified as active interest versus passive observation. As students’ attractions were confined to a single day, at present most of them had eyes for only one person.

Ron, for example, had tunnel vision, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

“Ronald . . .”

“If you call me Ronald again, I’ll start calling you Hermy-own-ninny.”

“If you say Hermy-own-ninny three times, you’ll summon Viktor Krum.”

Ron paused to think of something clever and was distracted by Hermione’s smile. “Well—wouldn’t want that, would we?”

She shrugged. “Wouldn’t we?”

When she turned away, someone else may have interpreted the longing in Ron’s face as frustration.

Of the Weasley siblings, Ron seemed to show the least affection toward those of the same sex (aside from Percy). Only when Harry paid more attention to Ron’s brothers did something shift. Spurred by jealousy, Ron would walk closer to Harry, even wrap an arm around him if it felt natural.

While the tension between Ron and Hermione had been obvious to Harry prior to the loop, if he hadn’t known about Dean and Seamus, their attraction may have gone unnoticed. When the boys looked at each other, their smiles could pass as platonic. Once, though, he spotted Dean’s hand on Seamus’ thigh while the two studied at a table in the common room, and even this gesture only lasted a minute.

And then there were the occasional suggestive comments: roommates who had caught each other in compromising positions, compliments that went too far, and teasing when two friends got too cozy with one another.

Two girls—one in Hufflepuff, one in Ravenclaw—whom he had previously assumed to be really good friends turned out to be more: he once caught Yolanda, the Hufflepuff, kiss Carrie on the cheek while sitting in her lap, and when he skimmed the Marauder’s Map one evening, he found their names overlapping in a vacant courtyard.

“What am I doing . . .” muttered Harry, folding up the map. This was not the first time that shame made him put the map away.

The time loop made his intrusions more frequent, often unintentionally, as he noticed things that only appeared to him after observing the same behavior over and over again. Sometimes, he would be so caught up in something he observed that he lost track of time following a person or idea until something jolted him out of his trancelike state. It only took a change in expression, an unusual comment, or a subtle glance to pique his attention.

At lunch one day, Malfoy’s eyes were on Blaise Zabini as his friend stretched languidly, head back. Malfoy averted his gaze when their eyes met. This didn’t have to mean anything—he could have been interested in something Zabini said or simply felt jealous at his good looks, especially considering Malfoy’s less-than-healthy appearance.

Before he realized what he was doing or how much time had passed, Harry was under the cloak, following Crabbe and Goyle to the Slytherin common room in search of answers. The pair were returning from the kitchens and moved slowly enough for him to slip in after them.

A few people perked up when they saw the food—apparently this was a regular practice. Crabbe and Goyle laid out the combination of cakes, bread rolls, and biscuits onto the table adjacent to the couches where Malfoy, Zabini, and Pansy sat, their books sprawled over the floor around them, stray pieces of parchment lost in and under furniture. Malfoy, sitting in between Zabini and Pansy, only acknowledged his friends’ return with a nod of his head, briefly meeting their eyes before returning to work.

“Have a lot to study?” asked Goyle, sinking into a chair across from the trio. 

“What’s any of it matter?” said Malfoy, his face souring.

The fog in Harry’s brain lifted. He’d seen this precise expression over and over again in the loop: the awkward pause when a friend said something they had said many times before, particularly if it was out of frustration or loathing. They had already said all they could to reassure him, Harry guessed, and none of it had done much good. Malfoy’s experience was separate from them.

“The more familiar you are with this magic,” said Pansy, tapping the cover of a book, “the more prepared you’ll be later on.”

“Are you saying you agree with the curriculum here?”

“No, of course not.”

“Most of the year we have our heads buried in books, what good does that do? And with traitors like Slughorn in charge . . . Of course he plays favorites, he did in my parents’ time. But picking Mudbloods over me? It’s ridiculous. So if I am less than enthusiastic about coursework, it is hardly my fault.”

“The half-giant and that centaur, too,” said Crabbe, mouth half-full. “D’you want something to eat? There’s loads here.”

Malfoy shook his head at Crabbe, then looked at the rest of them as he said, “You’ve heard it all before. I haven’t the energy tonight . . .”

Zabini rested a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, and annoyance stung Harry. Obviously Malfoy wanted to be fawned over. “You saw Madam Pomfrey, right? To help with sleep?”

Malfoy hesitated. “And draw attention to myself? I wanted to be cautious.”

“Then I’ll get the potion for you,” said Pansy.

They all stared at Malfoy, whose flush only made his unhealthy pallor more noticeable.

“Merlin’s sake, fine, if it’ll get you to stop nagging me.” Malfoy raised a hand—an apple from the pile of food arced through the air and into his open palm. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly when Pansy “oohed” at this, though his expression was quickly hidden as he took a bite.

Absently, Harry wondered if Malfoy had been practicing wandless magic in the Room of Hidden Things and envisioned the collection of objects spinning around him as he tinkered with the cabinet. 

After a half an hour of revising, Goyle said, “Can we have a break?”

“Oh, we should play kiss, marry, kill,” said Pansy, clapping her hands together.

“What is that?” asked Malfoy.

“Right, you weren’t there, were you?” said Pansy, not noticing Malfoy’s jaw tense at this. “Someone says three people, and everyone decided who they want to kiss, marry, or kill.”

“Sounds inane.”

Pansy’s excitement dropped at once. “It’s not so bad.”

“So,” said Zabini, before Malfoy could continue putting her down, “who are you thinking of?”

“Hm.” She glanced around, then said, voice lowered, “Millicent, Daphne, and Tracey.”

“Marry Daphne. Kiss Tracey. Kill Millicent,” was the refrain, and it seemed the only reason Malfoy repeated this was because everyone else had said it. A sense of unease filled Harry, partially undercut by amusement at their conversation.

Zabini ran a hand over his close-shaven head. “How about three from Durmstrang?”

“Plaksin, Krum, Bakhtin.”

At the name Bakhtin, Malfoy drew his legs up closer to himself.

“All boys? C’mon, Pansy,” groaned Zabini.

“What, it’s not serious. I’ll come up with a few girl ones.”

“Kill Plaksin,” said Zabini and Malfoy at the same time that Crabbe and Goyle said, “Kill Bakhtin.”

“Why him over Mischa?” said Pansy to the pair, who looked comically frustrated.

“Mikhail didn’t like us,” said Crabbe.

Pansy snickered. “You two were _jealous_.”

Goyle glared at her. “Were not!”

“No use denying it. You can’t have Draco all to yourselves, you know.” She cozied up to Malfoy, fluttering her lashes at them as she did so.

“You’re so annoying,” said Goyle, though he couldn’t hide a smirk.

“Now, Blaise, if you’re killing Plaksin, who will you marry and who will you snog?”

“Doesn’t marrying them mean you have to snog them?” said Malfoy, duly accepting Pansy’s affection.

“Well, I think it’s more about who you’ve got to live with for the rest of your life,” said Zabini, then added, “I would marry Krum. To start, he’s got the most money.”

“He also went to the Yule Ball with Granger,” said Malfoy, unresponsive to Pansy’s touch.

“So you’d go for Mikhail, then?”

Pansy looked at each of them, eyebrow raised. “Is anyone surprised?”

“Shut up.” It could have been Harry’s imagination, but the circles under Malfoy’s eyes seemed darker than before.

“What? You two were close.”

“What are you implying?”

“What do you think I’m implying?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

The edges of Harry prickled as he studied Malfoy, unwilling to assume he understood the fear he saw and yet unable to turn off the intuition that told him Malfoy was worried about seeming too interested in this Mikhail Bakhtin person. Who was he, anyhow? Harry hadn’t paid much attention to the Durmstrang students.

“Moving on, I have another group: Sprout, Sinistra, and McGonagall.”

Crabbe and Goyle guffawed, drawing the attention of some seventh-year Slytherins, who looked at them pointedly so they would be quiet.

“Really?” Zabini shook his head.

“You wanted girls.”

“Not what I meant.”

“So what would you do?”

“Bloody hell, Pansy. What would you do?”

“Kill McGonagall. Kiss Sprout. Marry Sinistra.”

“Obviously,” said Zabini. “McGonagall’s like a hundred years old.”

Malfoy shrugged in agreement. Somehow, he seemed even more tired than he had before. Harry watched the space between him and Zabini, waiting to see if Malfoy would rest his head oh his shoulder, or resist. If it were Ron, would Harry rest his head or not? Their friendship wasn’t like that, there had always been a normal distance between them.

A wicked smile spread across Pansy’s face. “Potter, Weasley, and Granger.”

“No, piss off,” said Malfoy, suddenly alert. Zabini nudged him, laughing, as he crossed his arms. “You answer first, then, Blaise, if you find it so funny.”

“It’s quite straightforward. Kill Potter, marry Granger, kiss Weasley.”

Pansy reached across Malfoy to hit Zabini, who then clutched his arm in mock-pain. “You better have a good explanation,” she said to him, “because it’s obviously kill Potter, kiss Granger, marry Weasley.”

“You’re a girl, of course they’d be switched.”

“I can’t kill Potter, that’s a task for the Dark Lord,” interrupted Malfoy, causing Pansy to look at him in surprise, “though he is a nuisance. May as well kill Weasley, then, there would be a dozen other red-headed blood traitors to take his place.”

Pansy clucked her tongue. “Don’t say you would marry the Mudblood.”

“I would kiss Granger, as revolting as that would be.”

After counting to two on his fingers, Goyle said, “Hang on, that means you’ve got to marry Potter.”

“Granger’s the only girl, why wouldn’t you marry her?” asked Zabini, incredulous.

“Harry’s a Half-blood, despite everything,” said Pansy quickly.

Malfoy had gone very still. “It’s only a game.”

“Yeah, it’s just a game,” said Pansy. “We should get back to work, anyhow.”

One moment, Harry was boring a hole in Malfoy’s head, and the next, he saw a flash of himself coming out of the lake after the Second Task, breathless with his wet clothes clinging to him, and Fleur kissing him, followed by a surge of anger . . . And then he was back in his present body. Malfoy looked around, some color back in his face, before mumbling to the others about needing to use the bathroom.

From Harry’s limited understanding of Legilimency, he knew it was easiest to read people at their most vulnerable, particularly if they wanted to be understood. Why was he on Malfoy’s mind, and that memory, no less? Why had he detected a hint of jealousy? Half of him thought it was because of the glory he had in that moment and in the tournament; the other half thought it explained Malfoy’s choice in the kill-marry-kiss game, why Fleur’s affection meant something. And the Amortentia from earlier in the loop—

No. He wasn’t going to let his imagination spin out of control, beyond the scope of reality. Besides, upon returning to the couch, Malfoy appeared to be better. At least, apart from his relentless nail-biting, a habit Malfoy acted on only in his most difficult days in the loop.

“Draco, honestly, is there anything we can do to help?” Pansy lightly ran her fingers down his arm, watching his face for any hint of instability.

“You would be the first to know. The fewer people are involved, the better.” He must have said it a number of times before.

“You’re smart, Draco. You’ll figure it out.”

He stopped chewing his nails and shrugged.

“We’re proud of you. You know that, right?”

“What good does pride do? What, you’re amazed I haven’t fallen apart? Do you feel sorry for me?”

“No, that’s not it.”

None of them spoke up to elaborate, though, and they went back to studying in awkward silence.

“It’s hard to believe Potter is suddenly the best at Potions in our class,” said Zabini, tone akin to a Petunia giving Dudley ice cream to stop a tantrum.

“He’s been cheating to win Slughorn’s favor, I’m certain of it.” The others watched Malfoy until he looked up, having stopped speaking before they expected. “If I weren’t so preoccupied with this task, I would have earned a spot in Slughorn’s little harem.”

“Slughorn doesn’t deserve you,” cooed Pansy. “Besides, he has no idea that you have experience fixing dark artifacts. You’re the only one at Hogwarts with such advanced skill.”

Malfoy stayed silent.

“And what’s more, you’re a quick learner. I hate seeing you doubt yourself, because when you keep at something, you succeed. You get what you want, in the end.”

With her compliments rewarded by a smirk, Pansy turned expectantly to the others and missed how immediately the tired expression returned to Malfoy’s face.

“We will prevail,” said Zabini, happy to set aside his book. “You’ll become one of the Dark Lord’s most esteemed servants.”

For the first time, Harry felt offended on behalf of Malfoy. How could his so-called friends miss what was—in his opinion—so obvious? How could they all be so deluded? Did it make them feel better, pretending Malfoy’s situation was in his head, that he would object if he didn’t want the task given to him?

“I know we’ll win. That’s not—it doesn’t matter.” They were all staring at him as he stared at the wall. “I’m going to bed, I’ll see you all tomorrow.” Was his slouch supposed to garner sympathy from the others, or did he simply not care enough to stand properly?

As soon as he was gone, Zabini opened his mouth to speak, but Pansy shushed him.

“What?”

“Unless you’re going to contribute something useful, I don’t want to hear it.”

“I was going to say I’ll get him sleeping potion tomorrow, for Merlin’s sake. One comment about his hair and you’re on my case—”

“One comment, like it was one comment—”

“Oh, and you’ve never said anything about him.”

“I’m talking about when you told him, point blank—”

“So you want to pretend everything’s fine? Ooh, let’s play a game, oh, Draco, you’re so talented—”

“You’re a prick.”

“Why are you acting like it’s my fault he’s struggling? None of us have been able to do anything.”

“I’m going to talk to him.” Pansy gathered her things and walked to the boys’ dormitory stairs.

“Pansy, you’re going to push him further away. Leave him alone,” said Zabini, and she stopped.

Without a word, Pansy turned and ran downstairs to the girls’ dormitory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Image description for the chapter illustration: Digital painting. Luna stands in a greenhouse holding flowers that conveniently obscure her hands, since I am terrible at drawing them. The greenhouse background is abstract, as it has been edited from photograph. Overall, the effect is soft. Luna smiles at someone not seen in the image.]
> 
> If you're interested in Sirius x Remus, I just posted a one-shot fic about them called "Selfish" (rated M). Although it's not compliant with this fic's canon, it will give you an idea of one way I imagine their relationship!


	7. The Lost Diadem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traumas big and small are shared. The road to defeating Voldemort gets a little shorter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter illustration image description at end of chapter notes.

 

As Harry struggled to keep his spirits up, Ron consistently made him forget his worries. While he appreciated Hermione’s concern for his well-being, he appreciated Ron’s efforts to improve his mood without talking at length about feelings.

At lunch one afternoon, after Harry had explained the time loop, he asked Ron, “Do you want to go somewhere?”  
“You’ve got somewhere in mind?”

“London. We can take the Floo Network.”

“Why not, if time is resetting tomorrow?”

Harry had no idea what they were to do, he just knew getting away and bringing them into a new situation would feel like an escape from the monotony of everything.

They went into every shop Harry had never visited before and he marveled at the magical goods with fresh amazement. He ordered them an extravagant dinner at a Muggle restaurant comprised of tiny courses that were immaculately presented in the center of gleaming china. With money to burn, he whipped up some disguises and booked them a suite at the Damarion Hotel. Apparently, it was the wizarding elite’s preferred place to stay in England. Ron seemed to read nothing romantic into the day’s activities, to Harry’s immense relief.

Harry spread out on his magically soft bed and looked at Ron upside down. “If time was repeating, as in you kept waking up and it was the same day over and over again . . . what would you do?”

Ron’s responses typically ran along the lines of eating a lot, playing Quidditch, and getting revenge on Malfoy. After he predictably listed these, Harry pressed, “Really, though. You get bored of all of that, you weren’t expecting it to last more than a couple weeks, so what do you do?”

Ron flipped onto his back so he was oriented the same way as Harry. “This was quite fun, I’d do things like we did today. How much can you really do in twenty-four hours? Visit Charlie in Romania maybe, learn about dragons . . . What have you done?”

“Nothing much. Figured out what Malfoy was up to, practiced magic.”

“What about the Horcruxes? Have you found out anything about them?”

“Er, not really.” Why was he still bothering with Malfoy when he could have been searching for Horcruxes?

“It can’t all be about that, though—going at one task for months on end, so I get why you haven’t.”

“Maybe I should find out the results of a few Muggle sporting events, put money on a team or a horse or something.”

“Hey, if you do that, you better include me.”

Harry laughed, then rolled onto his stomach. “Okay, I’ll look into it. Thanks for coming with me today.”

“No, thank you, mate, honestly.” Ron rolled over, too, and propped his head up with his hand. “Best meal of my life. Just wish I could remember it tomorrow.”

“Ron . . . your friendship means a lot to me.”

“I know.” Despite his embarrassment, he didn’t look away.

“You can guess, but I never tell you, do I? I’m really, really lucky to have you as a friend. You’re loyal, funny; you make it easier to deal with this, to deal with everything. Even though you won’t remember this conversation, in the future I want to be there for you more.”

“Thanks.” Ron fidgeted. “You know, you’re the first friend I had who my brothers weren’t friends with first.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “When I was nine—no, ten, because it was the year before Hogwarts—I ran away from home.”

Harry might have assumed this would be merely a funny childhood story if not for the hitch in Ron’s voice and the lost look in his eyes, as though he were returning to the body of his younger self.

“It’d been a tough year. It was just me, Ginny, and my mum, and . . .” He made a sudden look of disgust. “It’s so stupid. This is why I never said anything, compared to what you had to put up with at home—”

“I want you to tell me. It’s not stupid. What’s the point in pretending your childhood was perfect? That would make me feel worse!”

Ron nodded, grimacing again. “Alright then. So I was annoyed with my parents a lot as a kid. I think I was convinced my mum loved Ginny more. I’m throwing fits and generally being a pain in the arse. And when my brothers come back from Hogwarts, we immediately clash, they tell me off for acting like a baby, crack jokes, start pranking me even more than usual. Of course Ginny’s the golden child, she’s protected, she’s dealing with none of it. It’s hard to explain now, I’m already forgetting what exactly they did, how I felt.”

“I understand what you’re saying, though,” said Harry.

“What I remember most is the day before I left. Oh—and I should say, that year made me realize just how worried my parents had been about money. So between everything, I felt guilty for burdening them.”

Harry nodded. Maybe it was worse to feel like a burden to those you love rather than be told you’re a burden by those who don’t love you. No, deep down he saw the Dursleys as more than not loving him; he was told he was a burden by those who were _supposed to love him_.

“Fred and George told me I’d have to fight a troll to be sorted into a House.”

“Oh, I remember you saying that when we were waiting to be sorted. I had no idea what to do if we had to use magic . . .”

“Exactly. So they made up this mad story about a kid sorted before them, and how she tried this spell but it didn’t work, and the troll ate her. I believed them, even though it sounds obvious now that they were lying. For a week I had nightmares, until I said at dinner that I didn’t want to go to Hogwarts because I didn’t want to be killed. When my parents worked out why I thought I’d be in danger at Hogwarts—”

“To be fair, our first year you still almost got killed by a troll, not to mention Voldemort. And a giant three-headed dog.”

Ron laughed. “Right, if I’d known that I definitely wouldn’t have turned up.”

“What was it Trelawney predicted?”

“Trelawney?” Ron blinked at him, unsure of where this was going.

“You’re going to suffer but be very happy.”

“Oh.” His mouth twisted into a smile. “Looking back on what we’ve been through, I wouldn’t want to do it again. The best moments, though . . . they’ve made it worthwhile. But where’d I leave off . . . oh, so Mum got upset at Fred and George, I was sobbing, and later the twins made fun of me for being so gullible.”

Harry pictured Ron’s face streaked with tears, and was at once filled with compassion for him.

“That night, I packed up some clothes, some food, the savings I had, and took off on Charlie’s old broom.” He paused, looking a bit sheepish. “I got tired pretty quickly. The sun was rising when I stopped to eat the food I’d brought, a ways outside the town. I was walking down the road when my family found me. My brothers had to apologize and everything. I wasn’t upset anymore, just glad they cared enough to find me. I dunno. It was a while ago, now.”

Although not a revelation, Harry now better understood Ron whenever he felt out of place, undeserving, ashamed.

“How did you do it?” asked Ron.

“Do what?”

“You turned out alright.”

“I don’t know. You don’t think I’m distant?”

“No?”

“I feel like you and Hermione know who you are better than I do.”

Ron shook his head. “Nah, that’s probably because you know us so well. There’s plenty I’m unsure about.”

But the time loop made Harry’s lack of self-awareness and disconnect from others obvious. People either expected the same patterns from him or missed cues that something was off with him, and his friends often skirted around difficult conversations when they spent time together. Harry had grown too comfortable with his limited knowledge of himself, of others, of the world.

“How much of yourself do you think I don’t know? If you had to put a percentage on it.”

Ron yawned, too tired to clarify what Harry meant. “Er, five percent. It’s not much.” 

They ordered room service and dove into a collection of candied fruit, hot fudge and ice cream, the Damarion’s signature biscuits, and champagne.

“. . . Okay, okay, how about this,” began Harry after Ron retold one of his most infamous Lavender stories, “Top three girls in our year. Who’d you most want to date, not just based on looks?”

“Hang on, I have to think about this. If I had to choose . . . Lin Miller, Hermione—not that I would, it’s only because we usually get on—and Mandy Brocklehurst, I suppose. It hardly matters, anyhow.”

“Why not?”

“What have I got to offer? I’m not good-looking, and I’m not really smart or talented. Compared to you . . . I have no idea what Lavender saw in me.”

_“Lumos!”_ Harry looked at Ron in disbelief. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. If fame helped that much, I’d have had a girlfriend by now, right?” Specifying “girlfriend” left his mouth bitter. “Ron, you’re funny, you’re loyal, you’re a great Keeper, you’re caring—”

“That’s what you see. Other people don’t see that.”

“Other people? The minute ‘other people’ read something negative about me in the paper they thought I was dangerous, a liar. What do other people know?”

“That’s different.”

“Bullocks, Ron. Forget about them, forget about how you think you measure up to your brothers.” Taking them both by surprise, Harry’s voice caught. “I don’t mean to embarrass you, it’s just that out of everyone I could have met on the Hogwarts Express, I’m happy it was you.”

Ron blinked a few times, raising a hand to partly block out the light as though it were the cause of his tears. “Yeah?”

“Yes. _Lumos Minima!”_

Able to see again, Ron picked up a biscuit and began to eat it, slowly, solemnly. “Fank you. I—”

“Mate,” said Harry, laughing, “finish your biscuit.”

“Mhm.” He stuffed another his mouth for good measure, swallowed before speaking for once to ask, “Am I decent-looking, at least?”

Panic crept into Harry, slowed by the champagne. _Why would he care what I say, does he think I can tell if blokes are attractive?_ “Oh. You really want my opinion?” When Ron nodded, he said, “Well then. If I . . . if I were a girl, I’d want to date you. Your height helps, don’t you think? And the ginger thing is in your favor, too.”

“That’s reassuring. Once, the twins tried dying their hair brown. It backfired and made their hair glow neon for two weeks.”

“Wow. It’s a shame that didn’t stick. So what would you say if the girl you’re dating thinks she’s not good-looking?”

“Obviously if I’m dating her, I’m attracted to her.”

Harry wondered how that reasoning would go over with Hermione. “Er, right. Maybe think on that a bit more.” There was more he could say to press Ron on the topic of Hermione, however, going further could spoil the day if he reacted badly.

So he decided against it and, yawning, suggested they go to sleep. 

“You’ll be okay, won’t you?” whispered Ron in the dark.

“I’ll be okay.”

* * *

A few days later, Harry met up with Hermione to research the time loop. They quickly got distracted, though, and left the library to talk. Eventually, Harry told Hermione the story about Ron running away as a child, which spurred on the subject of belonging.

“One of the first signs I was a witch,” said Hermione, pulling a lock of hair straight and letting it spring back, “was also the first time I remember someone being overtly racist. I was walking to the bus stop ahead of my parents, and this man standing outside of a shop called me a black . . . c-word.” She winced. “I don’t even like repeating it.”

“What a dick.”

“Yeah, my mum told him off, and the man tried to move toward her—he was getting angrier and angrier—but he couldn’t move. His feet were glued to the ground.

“Word travels fast in my neighborhood, I’m sure the Ministry had no choice but to spin the incident rather than erase it. In the papers that week, it was written off as very strong cement that had hardened around the man’s feet. What didn’t make sense about that explanation was that he couldn’t get his shoes off.

“Apparently, a number of women had reported him for harassment in the past. My parents also filed a complaint to the police; I don’t know if they ever found out what happened to him afterward. They kept the newspaper clipping about it, and once they understood I was a witch it was a point of pride.”

“Are there many people in London like that, compared to Surrey, do you reckon?”

“Are there many racist people in London? For starters, most people are good at hiding their racism. Spending the school years there, I was shielded from a lot of it. I attended a very diverse school and was too young to notice the subtle versions of prejudice.” She thought for a moment. “Still, if given the proper chance, I’m sure people in Surrey would be the same, likely worse. I noticed it more with other students, the ones who were overlooked, left behind. Whereas I was studious, well-behaved, and the odd one out for other reasons.

“You know, when I was bullied first year, still adjusting to Hogwarts, I initially assumed other students didn’t like me—at least in part—because I was black.”

Harry ached with empathy for her. His first instinct was to tell her that wasn’t the case, but what did he know? No one would ever have admitted it like they would have with blood status.

“It’s funny, I think the reason I wasn’t as affected by the blood purity prejudice as I could have been was because people focused on something I’d never learned to be ashamed of. My magic made me interesting, different, and to suddenly have to resent that . . . It was frustrating because it seemed so arbitrary. Racism is so rooted in culture, in the world, in the UK, and yet with this—people decided Muggleborns weren’t equal.”

Everything she said, Harry agreed with. What made him uncomfortable, however, was realizing how much thought she had put into it without ever confiding in him. Over the years, he hadn’t considered how others may have suffered from forms of racism that differed from his own experiences. Why couldn’t they have talked about this before?

“I get what you mean. For me, magic helped me escape my cousin and his gang. It helped me . . . I dunno, you know how Purebloods like Malfoy have this built-in confidence? Until recently Malfoy never doubted himself, questioned his own superiority—”

“Right, Malfoy’s identity is the only thing making him feel like he has value. It isn’t a gift to him, to any Pureblood, really—more like a right they never doubt. So as soon as it’s threatened, they lash out.” She was becoming more sure of her train of thought. “They have nothing to offer apart from what they take for granted. Faced with Muggleborns, they see magic as a resource they need to hoard for themselves instead of as a shared and diverse experience.”

“Exactly! Exactly, Hermione, that’s such a good way to put it. Dudley and his gang had that same confidence. Or maybe a better way to say it is they acted like they were better than others because really, they knew they were completely ordinary.” He paused, trying to remember his train of thought. “And . . . the thing is, I knew the way I looked impacted how they treated me. The inexplicable things that happened around me kept me from thinking I was worth somehow less than they were. I’m not saying it wasn’t hard, because at times it was bloody difficult, but feeling different in a way beyond my race saved me.”

“And considering how famous the Potters are, I can’t imagine people would judge you for your race at Hogwarts.”

“As the Boy Who Lived, it could be hard to tell why people loathed me. Was Umbridge racist or just cruel? And what about Draco—er, Malfoy, do you think he’s racist? Do think people at this school are racist?”

“Maybe to all three.”

They spent another couple hours deconstructing race in both of the worlds in which they existed. Hermione recommended a book to him called _New Worlds: The History of Muggle Colonialism and Wizarding Society, 1300-1970_. Maybe one day he would get around to reading it, but truthfully, he thought the weight of history would crush him.

* * *

Having spent time with both Ron and Hermione, Harry was ready to pursue the idea that had been gnawing at him since Ron brought it up: he ought to search for the Horcruxes. Leaving school to go to Diagon Alley was one thing, traveling the country to hunt down pieces of Voldemort’s soul when he had hardly any leads was another. From what Dumbledore hypothesized, the Horcruxes included Slytherin’s locket, Hufflepuff’s cup, something owned by Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, and possibly Nagini.

He decided to start by figuring out the uncertain Horcrux. If there was anyone who may know about an artifact of Ravenclaw’s, it was Luna.

“Luna, I was wondering if you’ve heard of an object that the founder of Ravenclaw owned or created. It would have been special, valuable, and not something that you could see in a museum or in Dumbledore’s office.”

“Oh, interesting question. Yes, there’s the lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.”

“It’s lost? When did it go missing? And, er, what’s a diadem, exactly?”

“It’s a sort of tiara, and it went missing centuries ago.”

“Right, ‘lost.’ Are there any stories about where it could be? Or anyone who could know?”

“There is the Grey Lady, the Ghost of Ravenclaw House. If you asked her, she might be able to help. She’s quite shy, though she’ll talk to Ravenclaws. If she knew you are my friend, she may help you.”

“Right, and where could I find her?” After asking this, Harry supposed it would be easier to just use the Marauder’s Map.

“Oh, anywhere, really. She likes reading and studying, so perhaps a library. If you ask a ghost, they may be able to point her out to you.”

Harry thanked Luna and half-walked, half-jogged toward Gryffindor Tower. A tiara. A tiara . . . had he seen a tiara anywhere? On his way to the common room, he noticed some movement on the wall; the door to the Room of Requirement had materialized.

Was the Grey Lady there, or the diadem? He opened the door, picturing a chair with a crown perched on top of a velvet pillow.

Instead, he found the Room of Hidden Things.

A memory from the day before the loop struck him. “Oh—wait—I remember!” He took off down the main drag, eyes peeled for a familiar alleyway. _“Accio diadem!”_ Nothing happened, so he ran into the alley marked by a stuffed troll and slowed down. Was it right or left at the Vanishing Cabinet that Malfoy had been working to fix? After going right first, he then went left, breath catching as he saw the acid-damaged cupboard.

Between the cupboard and a wig stand was a tiara discolored from time gone unpolished. Engraved along its side were the words “Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.”

Harry picked it up and closed his eyes, waiting to feel a heartbeat, or another sign that it was what he was looking for. He thought he heard a subtle whispering, but his scar didn’t hurt.

Wasn’t it too easy? Surely if Voldemort had wanted to protect the diadem it would be cursed or better hidden.

The surest way to find out if it was a Horcrux was to bring it to Dumbledore. Tucking the diadem into his robes, Harry hurried out of the Room of Hidden Things and down the shortest path he knew to get to the Headmaster’s Tower.

The gargoyle gave way to the password “Shock-o-Choc.” Even before he got to Dumbledore’s office, a smile split across Harry’s face. When was the last time he had felt a rush of satisfaction like this? Perhaps focusing on securing his freedom beyond the loop would free him in a different way.

“Good evening, Harry, I was—”

“Writing a letter?”

“Yes, in fact.”

“Sorry, sir, I should explain everything to you first.”

As he rushed through a summary of the past few months, Dumbledore’s eyebrows arched higher and higher.

“. . . which made me think I should look for Horcruxes.”

“Is that . . . in your hand . . . ?”

Harry handed him the diadem, feeling the weight of it leave him at once.

Dumbledore winced when he touched it with his burnt hand. “It is. Where did you find this?”

“In the Room of Hidden Things.”

“Ah.” Dumbledore studied the diadem for a long moment. “You recall the memory I showed you in which Voldemort applies to be professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts . . . I believe he could have hidden the diadem in Hogwarts that night.”

“So he knew about the room?”

“He must have discovered it as a student. I myself have never required such a room. It is usually used by a certain type of individual, the people whose circumstances require secrecy that they are unable to create independently.”

“Right, it was where Dumbledore’s Army met. The only other people I know of who’ve used it are Malfoy and Trelawney.”

“Hm.” Dumbledore’s eyes fell upon the diadem again.

“Sir, we can’t destroy it.”

“Why not?”

“Because what if it makes the time loop end?” Harry could hardly believe he was advocating to continue the loop. “I should find the others first.”

Dumbledore studied Harry before speaking. “How long have you been suspended in time?”

“A few months. I only recently started looking for Horcruxes.”

“And you are unaware of the locket’s location?”

“Yeah, I’ve yet to find it. The cup as well, I still have a ways to go.”

Dumbledore nodded and stroked his beard. “Come to me again once you have any new information.” Then he smiled. “We are now closer to our goal. Well done, Harry.”

With the diadem in Dumbledore’s possession for the time being, Harry used the Marauder’s Map to track down the Grey Lady.

She was young, with waist-length hair, and if he knew anything from observing Malfoy, her haughty pride suggested a noble background. Looking at her more closely, he knew he had passed her but had never given her much thought. 

“Grey Lady?”

She glanced at him, then away, continuing to float down the corridor.

“Hang on, you’re the ghost of Ravenclaw House, aren’t you?”

“That is correct.” She slowed her pace so he could walk next to her.

“I found the lost diadem.”

She froze and looked at him, eyes wide. “How?”

Harry was taken aback by the urgency in her stare. “It’s in Hogwarts. Someone hid it in the castle.”

“Someone . . . and do you know who hid it?”

“It has to be Voldemort—Tom Riddle—I just have no idea how he got it, or how he put it there.”

“So you have failed enough exams to think the diadem will only help you.”

“What have exams got to do with it? No, I’m trying to stop Voldemort, he put a piece of his soul in it so he’d be impossible to kill.”

Helena’s serene face twisted. “The diadem belonged to my mother.” They were alone, and Harry could tell she would not confess this unless he was the only one to hear.

“Your mother was Rowena Ravenclaw?”

“Yes. Knowing that such a terrible wizard warped a family heirloom . . .”

“A family heirloom that makes you smarter?”

Helena Ravenclaw shook her head, as though preparing to explain a simple concept to a child. “It bestows wisdom. That is why I stole the diadem.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “My mother concealed my betrayal from the other founders of Hogwarts, pretending she still possessed it. When my mother neared death, she sent someone to bring me to her, for closure. The man had loved me for years, although I did not return his affections.

“The Baron tracked me to the forest in where I was hiding with the diadem. When I refused to return with him, he became violent. He had always been quick to anger. Furious at my refusal, jealous of my freedom, he stabbed me.”

“You said the Baron, do you mean—?”

“The Bloody Baron, yes.” She lifted the cloak she wore over her dress to reveal a dark wound in her chest, right over her heart. “Once he came to his senses, he was overcome with remorse. With the weapon he used to take my life, he took his own. To this day, he wears chains as an act of penitence, as he should.”

“Where was this? Did it happen near the castle, since you’re here now?”

“I was hiding in Albania. I returned to Britain after my mother died, apparently from a broken heart. She knew she had caused my death, and that it was impossible for me to see her. She never knew I returned as a ghost. Only after two centuries or so—after everyone who knew me and their children had died—did I return to Britain, and to Hogwarts. The Baron followed me, and ever since, we have kept our identities a secret. Now, he lives with remorse for his transgressions against me.”

“I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

“Yes, it is. Now, I have told you far too much . . . needlessly dwelling on my past distracts me.” She drifted away, leaving him alone in the corridor. 

Had the Bloody Baron cast the curse? Could a ghost do such a thing? Or maybe after killing the woman he loved, he regretted it so much that he tried to reverse time, and when he failed, he ended his life. By using Sectumsempra, Harry could have imitated the stabbing and triggered the loop. 

With a shout of triumph, Harry ran to track down the Bloody Baron. As the ghost rounded the corner by the Slytherin dormitory, Harry said, “Excuse me, I need to ask you something.”

“Why are you sneaking around the dungeons, Gryffindor?”

“I found out that the Grey Lady is Helena Ravenclaw, and that you killed her.”

The Bloody Baron stared at him, stony expression fracturing.

“So I wanted to know, did you ever try to cast a curse to reverse time? So you could take it back?”

“No. Even if such a spell existed, I would have chosen to pay for my sin.”

“Then . . . how is time screwed up? I’ve been living the same day over and over again.”

“You thought of me because you also hurt the person you love?”

“No! That’s not—I don’t love him, I don’t even like—” Harry had let the pronoun slip out accidentally, but figured it may pass unnoticed. “But why would someone make time reverse if they weren’t trying to undo a mistake?”

“Not every ghost is present because of regret. Most have unfinished business, the kind that will always remain unfinished, trapping them among mortals.”

“So . . . you’re saying . . . ?”

“You are mortal. There may be unfinished business that has trapped you in time. I cannot move on, but perhaps you can . . .”

“Wait—don’t go—I still don’t understand.”

“Do not tell anyone about this,” the Bloody Baron said, then sunk into the floor.

As though watching himself from above, Harry crouched down onto the ground, pressing his hands on the stone surface through which the Baron had disappeared. After at least a dozen weeks and too many dead ends to remember, he was done getting his hopes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Image description: A digital illustration of a mirrored diadem. On the top half, Ravenclaw's diadem is intricate and silver, against a white background. On the bottom half, which is upside down, the diadem is a sharp red against a black and red background.]


	8. Luna's Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fighting hopelessness, Harry needs to have some of his questions answered in order to move on. Luna introduces him to a hidden library that may provide a solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter illustration image description is at the end of the chapter.

 

 

 

By now harry had spent over three months in the time loop. At least, that was his best guess; knowing he had spent even half as long in the loop made everything hard to bear. He spent what he guessed was the hundredth day sulking, rarely talking, snapping whenever he did have to speak.

For the next fifteen days in the loop, Harry stayed in bed, pretending to be sick. He only moved to go to the bathroom, accepting food twice a day from Ron, Hermione, and Dobby, who usually assumed he was being honest. There was something addictive about letting his responsibilities go to the wayside, knowing that even if he chose to be stagnant, because of the time loop he wouldn’t have to face the consequences. On the sixteenth day of this sluggishness, he emerged for dinner, carefully avoiding everyone’s usual path—until Luna ran into him.

“Oh, hello, Luna.”

“Hi, Harry. You look awful.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you alright? Do you need to talk about anything?”

Recently, he couldn’t be bothered, but he duly told her they could talk after eating. They met up outside of the Great Hall and went to the library, where he explained everything to her in a whisper: the time loop, the diadem that would help stop Voldemort, and how he was discovering things about people for the first time.

“What sort of things?”

“Er, like, gossip. Who people fancy.”

“Oh. Do you know who I fancy?”

“Yeah.”

They looked at each other, both waiting for the other to speak.

“Er, you used to fancy Ginny.”

Luna’s eyebrows shot up.

“There’s other people, too . . . people of the same sex who fancy each other, and anyhow—I’m tired, you know? Tired of living out the same day over and over, of spending my energy on figuring out how to end this damn thing, of not knowing how to help people once time returns to normal.”

“Did something happen between you and someone else?” Luna had begun walking down the aisle, eying the shelves.

Goosebumps ran down Harry’s arms. “What do you mean?”

“If you don’t know what I mean, it’s okay.” She stopped and ran a finger over the books on a shelf at her eye level, smiled when she found the book she was looking for, and pulled it out. “In my second year at Hogwarts, I discovered these books hidden away throughout the library. They all have characters or romances between people of the same sex. There’s a few about queer history as well.”

Dimly, Harry wondered why she’d used the word queer. He then wondered how he had been so oblivious of all of this.

She seemed to know what he was thinking. “Part of life is learning how much you don’t know about the world. It can seem frustrating or shameful, which is why many people reject new information. As you continue discovering, I hope you can make peace with the unknown.”

“Luna, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the loop, it’s that your ages beyond anyone at this school.”

Luna’s face went pink and she continued, “The books erase your name after you return them. That way, students who read the books are protected.” Catching the shift in Harry’s expression, she added, “Anyone can read them. But not everyone wants to—by disguising a book as something uninteresting, most people wouldn’t give it a second thought, right?”

“Right.”

“Unless you’re a very particular kind of Ravenclaw.” Luna flipped the book over and showed Harry the description. “‘Madam Opticia details the many spells one can use to properly dress a bed . . . ’ and it goes on. Seems _too_ dull.”

“So how d’you figure it’s about something else?”

“Look here, on the spine below the title. There’s a symbol—a tiny unicorn. See?”

“Oh, you’re right.” When Luna titled it toward the light, the unicorn glinted a dark metallic color.

“Why a unicorn?”

“It’s a symbol for the gay community. I found that out when there was an article about queer wizard rights in _The Quibbler_.” Tapping the unicorn symbol, Luna said, _“Verbum Aparecium!”_ The letters shifted, warped, shrunk, and grew until _Madam Opticia on Household Charms and Everyday Cleaning Spells_ had become _Merit and Memory_ by Octavia Whorl.

“A romance novel?”

“It’s a story from the late 1700s, probably the most famous novel by a British witch. Most people don’t know the author originally wrote it as a romance between two men, but the publisher refused to publish it unless she changed one of their genders. This is the only edition that was printed as she intended.”

Luna led him to a different aisle, where they loitered until a nearby student left. Pulling out a slim blue volume, she said, “I haven’t read this one yet; I think you would enjoy it. It’s called _On His Wings_.”

She took Harry through the entirety of the accessible part of the library, piling books in his arms as she went. Although Madam Pince gave them a suspicious look when they presented their unlikely finds, she let them check out the lot—six books to each.

Back in his dorm, Harry picked what seemed to be the least daunting book to read first: _Year at the Swansea Inn._ It was a hundred pages and had a simple green and gold cover. The synopsis on the back of the book read:

“Henry was just like any other man. Apart from his being a woman, that is. After leaving her abusive husband, Henriette transfigures her features and journeys from France to start a trip around the world as ‘HENRY.’ But on Henry’s first night at a Welsh inn outside of Swansea, an alluring woman piques her interest, leading both to question everything they thought about themselves and what they want.”

It took Harry a couple of distraction-fraught hours to get to the middle of the book. At this point, the two main characters went up to Henry’s room at the Inn.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

_“I must ask you not to step any closer.”_ He sat upon the bed, his back facing Catherine. The flicker of the candlelight played tricks on Catherine’s eyes, sputtering and flickering brightly so that shadows danced across Henry’s skin. Catherine knew a few men of high standing whose particular grace and soft countenance gave them the appearance of a lady, blessed with beauty so fair that even men in their presence could not help but speak flatteringly and in a manner suitable to women. Never had those handsome men approached the fineness of this man’s hair, loosed from its plait, over the silk-white smoothness of his shoulders.

“Why have you suddenly become shy, now that you have invited me to your room?” asked Catherine. “You are modest, but I endeavor to flatter you by admiring the delicacy of your features, which even now, not complemented by the countenance that attracted me to you, make me praise God for fashioning you.”

“Were I to turn around, I would reveal what I have concealed in fear of your rejection.”

“Surely you, so languid in your movements and high born, have not been disfigured by the throes of battle? I do not wish for you to reply, for it matters not; the scarring of the body does not condemn the soul. You should not be ashamed of this before me when I could only judge your face and stature upon our meeting. If you have scars, it is only a reflection of your bravery, of God’s realization that he molded you too beautifully and believed your perfection would lead you to vanity.”

Henry drew a blanket around himself and turned to regard her. “You must promise me that when I reveal myself, you will not cry for help or run away.”

“If it shall ease your anxiety, I promise I will not. Is there nothing I can do to earn your trust? It is a slight against my honor that you assure I am so weak-minded that the unexpected moves me to faint.”

“I intended no such offense. There is no need to prove your honor, for even the most noble of women would blush at the sight of me. I am not scarred, nor disfigured. In fact, admiration for my features is what compelled me to conceal myself. I told you I am fleeing marriage to a woman, but actually, I am fleeing marriage to a man.” At last, Henriette turned to face Catherine.

Catherine’s cheeks reddened. She attempted averting her eyes, but found herself unable to do so.

Henriette finally appeared as she was, her white breasts and round hips immediate evidence of what her clothing had obscured. “My name is Henriette.”

Perhaps Catherine had known all along that Henry was a woman, swayed otherwise merely by a hope that her disinterest in men would at long last be resolved. As a girl, she had wished for a man so beautiful she could love him.

She knew she ought to be angry, or at the very least frightened, but she could only stare at the magnificent wight before her. “Man or woman, a creature as beautiful as you must never be neglected if there is to be any hope for us mere mortals.” Catherine sat beside Henriette on the edge of the bed. “God has brought me to you as a test of my devotion, sending you to remind me of his most divine creations.”

“Misleading you brought me no joy, Catherine, and I have to apologize for my deception. Hearing your words has revived and enlivened me! Come closer, so that we may please Love and your god.”

The two lovers became one, each touch and embrace more passionate than the last— ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

Harry’s blood ran hot. A memory struck him, and he knew it hadn’t crossed his mind since the first time since he experienced it: when he was about nine, Aunt Petunia had apparently watched news coverage about some popular soap opera showing a kiss between two men, because she told Vernon about it in a whisper and fixated on the incident for weeks after, tutting about the state of the country and the effect it would have on _the children_.

In his attempts to understand what the fuss was about, Harry quickly looked through the newspaper Petunia had been reading, only to become more confused. Why was it wrong? Why did it matter at all?

The next day, Harry told Luna about the loop again and asked her to choose another book. She chose _Merit and Memory,_ the edition of the popular romance novel with its originally intended genders.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

_Mr. Finley had captured the attention of the entire party_ , being tall and handsome with striking features, and with two hundred Galleons a year to his name. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

Reading the book as though it were about a man and a woman was fairly easy, though until the end Harry couldn’t tell who would’ve remained a man and who would’ve been changed to a woman.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

_ “There’s a letter for you, Roger.” _

“From whom?”

Before Ailsa could respond, Roger had read the name; the letter was addressed from Mr. Finley.

“Your face is quite red, surely you don’t still have feelings for this man after how rudely he treated you? Has he heard of your engagement?”

“While I wish I could assure you there is nothing he could say to sway my affections once more, that would require lying to you as well as myself.” With that, he left the room to read the letter in peace.

“To my dear Roger,

I had to write you as soon as I learned of your engagement to Ms. Livon, as I do not wish to cause you distress by visiting you in person, nor do I want to risk losing you forever. First, I must apologize for my opacity and misguided approach to what I hoped would result in more amiable relations between us.

It is with deep shame that I tell you the rumors you have heard about my past are true, though society has a tendency to make demons out of sinners. In my youth, I became enamored with a friend, Ms. Sophie Minnoway, whom I knew since birth, for once she was of marrying age, I began to see her in a new light, and it is in that light that we began an affair. She was a most desirable companion, so it was only natural that I intended to marry her, but given my opaque nature I failed to express such intentions to her. Before I could properly explain myself, she was called abruptly to London to see her father, who had fallen gravely ill. While living in the city, she began to notice signs that she was with child, and in her panic, perhaps exacerbated by the impurities of the city, sought treatment to terminate her pregnancy by non-magical means, so as not to raise suspicion.

Had I known of her condition, I would have pledged to marry her, but rather than receive a letter from her of the happy news, I received a letter from her mother, who suffered two deaths in one week, and in knowing we were close friends, suspected that I was somehow responsible. Although it was not by my own hand that she passed, I was distraught and pledged her mother a yearly sum on which she could live comfortably.

This unfortunate story brings me great pain, and though I was not yet nineteen years of age at the time, the foolish actions of my past have made me hesitant to follow my heart in uncertain matters. Now you can perhaps understand why I behaved so appallingly toward you, as inexcusable as it was when I insulted you last fall.

The greatest pain I could feel is to learn you feel disgust for my inclinations toward the baser sex. In the weeks since our last encounter, I realized I was too presumptuous and my carelessness risked both of our reputations.

You and your fiancée will be able to build a happy life together, free of such pain that I have inflicted on you, and in accordance with the norms dictated by respectable society. Soon I will undertake the same responsibility and ask for you not to worry needlessly about my wellbeing. May you be blessed with a happy marriage and many healthy children.

With the warmest affection,

Jonathan Finley.” ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

The last few chapters of the book followed Roger breaking his engagement, a dramatic reunion at Mr. Finley’s estate, and (to Harry’s surprise) marriage. An editor’s note clarified that final event: an epilogue describing “Rhona” and Jonathan’s marriage had been added to the published text, so he took the liberty of altering the final part of the book to give Roger the same ending.

To Harry’s surprise, the books had effectively distracted him from the time loop. Living through someone else and experiencing their life’s dramas pushed his own hardship further and further away.

The next book Harry chose, _Carmilla_ , was an Irish Muggle novella from the nineteenth century, included in the library because the author had experienced wizarding society via his Muggleborn cousin.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

_The woman wore pale silk robes that matched the color of her breasts_. Her long hair was black as night, her eyes deep as the charred remains in the fireplace. No woman could rival her beauty, nor could any painter capture her likeness.

She approached Thérèse’s bed, white skin glowing in the moonlit chamber. Her lips parted and she bent down to reap the warm lifeblood from Thérèse’s sleeping form.

Her teeth pierced the soft skin of the poor woman, who felt only the vampire’s lips. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

Something about the vampire-human romance both intrigued and unnerved Harry. The vampire Carmilla only reminded him of thevampire at Slughorn’s party earlier that year and how some girls had fawned over him.

Between this book and the other two he’d read, he was surprised that literature with same-sex romance went so far back in history.

When he asked Hermione whether she had ever read a book with a gay character, she looked surprised and said, “Why?”

“I—it’s something I was wondering.”

She stared at him, then began awkwardly, “Hm, _Invisible Man,_ arguably _The Picture of Dorian Gray . . ._ Let me think. I’ve been meaning to read _The Color Purple—_ ”

“Are those all Muggle books?”

“Yes, they are.” Her face crinkled with confusion. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve read a wizarding book with, you know . . .”

“Right.”

Harry brushed off her follow-up questions, his own concentration giving him a headache. He’d never felt this way about reading before, but he just wanted to be back in bed with another book to distract him.

Although Luna hadn’t yet read it, he decided to try reading _On His Wings._

 ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

_“Eugh, it’s dead!”_ The little black boy jumped back from the white-bellied frog.

“You never seen a dead frog before?” asked Akiva. He found the other child very curious, particularly his gangly limbs and long eyelashes. “Are you a girl?”

The stranger puffed out his chest. “I’m a boy!” He rubbed his close-shaved head and kicked a pebble at Akiva.

“Hey! Go away, you’re annoying me.”

“And you’re mean.” The boy came closer and crouched down on the other side of the frog. “Are you a No-Maj?” he asked in a whisper.

Akiva shook his head. “No. Are you a wizard?”

“Kinda. I ain’t got much magic.”

“Oh. Did you move here recently?”

“Yeah. I’m from Alabama. I’m starting school here soon.”

“How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“Then we’ll be going to Ilvermorny at the same time!”

“I ain’t going.” The boy sank his head down close to his knees.

“Because you don’t have magic?”

The boy nodded. Suddenly, his arm shot out and he poked the frog in its stomach.

“What’re you doing? You’re the one who—” Akiva stopped mid-sentence. The frog wiggled into life, flipping back on its feet. Then it hopped away as though nothing had happened. Akiva gawked at the other boy. “How’d you do that?”

“I thought I was annoying.” The boy lifted his head, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Well . . . Say, what’s your name?”

“Gannett.”

“I’m Akiva. So how’d you do that?”

“My parents say the only reason I got magic is cause I absorbed my wizard twin in the womb.”

“You killed your twin?”

“I guess. But now I can bring plants and small animals back from the dead.”

“If my cat dies, could you heal her?”

Gannett stood up, chin level with the top of Akiva’s head. “I could try.”

“Then I want you to be my friend.” Akiva held out his hand, and they shook on it. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

The next several chapters of the book detailed the growing friendship between Gannett and Akiva and the summers they spent together once Akiva came back from Ilvermorny.

Each chapter alternated between the two boys’ perspectives, so that Harry started to tell the differences in how the two were attracted to the same sex. Akiva had mostly female friends, and they stayed up late in diners discussing the girls’ “silly crushes.” Akiva never genuinely liked any of the girls but went along with it if they wanted to date him.

Gannett, on the other hand, while attending a small boarding school for No-Maj students, experimented with boys. Whenever he returned home, his parents set him up to meet girls in the area. They were convinced he had to meet a girl early so she didn’t have the sense to date a fully-fledged wizard instead.

Harry only realized the book (though written in the 80s) took place in the early 60s when it mentioned racial segregation in Muggle society, as well as the passing of stricter anti-Muggle laws, which Gannett’s family supported. It also mentioned Akiva’s Jewish mother had fled Germany between the World Wars before settling in Atlanta, Georgia.

Over the summer before their final year at school, Gannett and Akiva visited New Orleans together.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

_“Is there anything else you want to do before we go home?”_ asked Akiva, studying his friend.

“I always wanted to have my fortune read.”

“Okay, let’s find a fortune teller who has actual magic.”

It only took Gannett and Akiva a couple of minutes to find an elderly witch posted at a booth with a sign outside that said “30 minute wait—take a number.” As they waited, the boys bought beignets and sat on a bench to relax in the cool breeze.

Akiva considered Gannett. “Why do you want your fortune read?”

“I guess I need some direction. My parents want me to marry the wealthy daughter of a family friend, and I know I will feel nothing for her.”

Akiva had a brief fluttering of hope in his chest, but he didn’t know what it meant. “How can you be so sure?”

Gannett was silent. His braided hair fell past his shoulders, making him as beautiful as the day Akiva met him.

“Your tastes are different, aren’t they?” asked Akiva slowly, giving extra weight to his words. He wiped some powdered sugar off of Gannett’s mouth, thumb lingering a second too long on his lower lip.

Gannett looked at him. “Mine are, as well.”

They both glanced around to see if anyone was paying them any mind.

“I can Disapparate if anyone gives us trouble,” said Akiva quietly.

“Good idea.” Gannett leaned in and kissed him, hand gripping Akiva’s shirt collar. By the ease of Gannett’s mouth, he had clearly done this before.

This kiss affected Akiva differently than the times he had kissed girls. Initially shocked and embarrassed, he soon recognized his reaction as butterflies in his stomach. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

Harry couldn’t help but reflect on his reaction to Draco. Had the swooping in his stomach meant something else? Except Gannett and Akiva were much different—their kiss had been years in the making, so _right—_ it was not at all what Harry had experienced. It wasn’t.

As Harry read the next few pages, the room faded away to his flushed face, the pages of the book, and his pounding heart. Some part of him knew he shouldn’t be reading it, but there was no one around, and it was in a Hogwarts library book, after all. 

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ 

_When they parted_ , Gannett said, “I can’t do this anymore. My wife—she’ll use magic to figure it out.”

The look on Akiva’s face told Gannett all he needed to know: silent tears ran down his cheeks.

“I promise you, Akiva, I’ll never forget you.” ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

The ending of the book took place a decade later. Gannett and Akiva saw each other again for the first time in all those years at a party and pretended to be mere acquaintances. The tragedy of it left Harry with an itching frustration that only a better conclusion could scratch. Once again meeting up with Luna, he said to her, “Please tell me the other books you recommended have happier endings.”

“What would you consider a happy ending?”

“To start, neither character dies. It wouldn’t hurt if they ended up together.”  
Luna considered him, her blue eyes boring into his. “You’re using the stories to escape. I understand. It’s why I like reading. I wish it were easier to find books where everything works out in the end, but that isn’t how life works, is it?” Still, she found a couple books that fit his requirements. “Start with this book, but skip this story, this, and this one, too.”

The first book was collection of short stories that look place around or during World War I. In one story, an Irishwoman named Alexandria stayed behind to take care of her newborn while her husband went off to work abroad for the government. Her best friend Catriona, a spinster in her late 30s, was the manager at a major potions manufacturer. Concerned about leaving Alexandria alone to care for the baby, Catriona offered to use Polyjuice Potion to transfigure into the husband so the baby would grow up with his two parents. Using a cache of the husband’s hair, the two spent the next year living together. Around Christmas, Alexandria begins missing her husband more and kisses Catriona in her transfigured state.

They become lovers. From then on, Catriona is only ever her in her real body at work. Harry couldn’t tell whether Alexandria loved Catriona in return until the end of the story.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

_ “Catriona, I received a letter from Franklin.” _

“Oh? What did he say? Is he returning soon?” Catriona tried her best to mask her true feelings.

“He’s coming back in two days.”

“Do you want me to pack my things?”

“No.” Alexandria bit her lip. “I don’t want you to leave. Catriona, I love you both.”

Catriona magicked herself back into her body. “You only love me when when I’m him.”

“I could never see you as him. The things you’ve said to me, the ways you’ve touched me, it’s all different.” ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

Shivers ran down Harry’s arms, as they always did just as a book reached a major turning point. Alexandria told her husband everything about the past two years and how she loved them both, and with time, he agreed to let Catriona live with them. The three of them lived together until they died of old age.

Another book with a (relatively) happy ending was a graphic novel illustrated by a British Punjabi artist. Called “Queue Query,” the semi-autobiographical book was nearly like an animated film, using text like subtitles under some of the illustrations to explain the story. Its protagonist Omar was the son of Indian immigrants, one witch and one Muggle. He grew up loving tandoori chicken and watching Muggle TV on Saturdays, routines he had to abandon at Hogwarts in favor of hardly-seasoned food and spotty radio. Over the course of his studies, he missed his family and friends terribly, and was relieved to return home to London after graduation.

In the fall after he turned eighteen, he went to Tesco for groceries, loaded up a basket, and waited in the checkout queue. The young man behind him glanced at his basket, then said, “Oh, damn, I forgot butter. Will you save my spot?” A little American flag sprung from his mouth to illustrate his accent. Before Omar could reply, the man had rushed off. After a minute, he returned and half-apologized, half-thanked Omar.

“No worries.”

“Hey, do you know any good places to eat around here? I’m studying abroad and the city’s huge.”

They both checked out at Tesco, and Omar got his mailing address. While at first the illustration of the American named Tyrell had appeared plain, he appeared increasingly attractive through Omar’s eyes. By the end of their inevitable date around the city, Harry was swept up enough by how charming their relationship was that he forgot to be worried about complications. Thankfully, it was left for him to wonder how long they stayed together after their shared week in London.

Finding he rather liked short stories, Harry chose a volume of West African folk tales and legends to read. Of the stories in the volume, his favorite was a legend called “Luwam and the Water Spirits.” In a small mixed-magic desert community in the place Muggles call Ethiopia, there is a tradition among children when they reach puberty: each child spends a year creating a work of art to present to the water deities and their mother, Mami Wata. The deities then determine whether the area will receive rain or drought that year. After five years of very little rain, the village decides to provide the only child coming of age that year with extra time so they can make their project worthy of opening up the skies.

The person chosen, and the story’s main character, was an 18-year-old named Luwam who had some body parts of a man and some of a woman. While initially confused, Harry realized “they” referred to the teenager, who was neither male nor female.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

“What have you brought us, beautiful one?”

“A sculpture that moves with the sun and moon.”

They sat and watched it for hours. It was composed of two spheres connected by an invisible thread, and as they said, the closed-eye face followed the sun’s course below the horizon, while the open-eyed face watched the moonrise.

“This pleases us,” said one deity. “But to restore rain, we ask that you to join our oasis. If you do as we ask, we will bestow fifty years of rain on your village.”

Luwam agreed, and the moon rose, entering the beings’ realm. They were loved as one of the Mami Wata’s own, and some of their offspring returned to the village. Those with the name “Luwam” are said to descend from the beautiful one who forged harmony between poles. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

After reading this, Harry asked Luna if there was such a thing as being neither or both sexes, or if that part of the story was made up.

“Yes, there are some people born that way, you can’t necessarily tell. Someone close to me was born intersex. He didn’t find out until he was a teenager. And he doesn’t tell other people, so I don’t think I can tell you at the moment.”

“Oh! No, no, of course not. Huh, and every time I think I’ve learned it all . . .”

“Have I recommended you read _Hear Your Brothers and Sisters, the Ones Who Cast Fire?”_

“No, you haven’t. What’s it about?”

“It’s nonfiction, it might help answer some of your questions.”

The book was organized into thirty-five chapters, each focused on a particular topic. He found many of the other topics to be beyond his current level of understanding. Perhaps one day, though, the complexity of the theories and history would seem less daunting. For learning on his own, Harry thought little more could be expected of him.

The five chapters he chose to read were “RIOTS—The History of QTW Rebellions,” “Transfiguration—Changing Shape, Changing Norms,” “RACIAL INTERSECTIONS—Queer and Trans Wix of Color,” “THE 90s—What’s in Store for the QTW Rights Movement,” and “LABELS—Muggle Influence from Homosexual to Queer.”

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

_TRANSFIGURATION_ : Changing Shape, Changing Norms

Since recorded history, magic has allowed wixes to change their appearance. Whereas Muggles largely use clothing and grooming techniques to manifest their self-expression and selfhood, wixes have used potions and spells . . . the importance of reproduction has been emphasized in many wix cultures since non-magic populations have dwarfed magic populations, making transfiguration a common if not temporary solution . . .

LABELS: Muggle Influence from Homosexual to Queer

For centuries, British wixes who deviated from cisgender male-female sexual relationships were either lumped with societal deviants more generally, or considered to have some “inclination” that did not constitute an identity. After the Muggle community began to change their opinions about and legislation regarding Muggles with same- and multiple-gender attraction, some opinions began to change in the wix community . . . 

The queer and transgender wizarding community, or QTW community, was a label popularized in the 1960s, after activist Wren Liu introduced it in the well-known critical essay “Queer Magic.” In the 1980s, the gender-neutral “wix” surpassed “wizard” in common usage amongst the community, as feminists advocated for a more inclusive term . . .

Muggle communities have historically been escapes for marginalized wix, particularly because they are much larger, and the use of magic can be hidden from them. Additionally, the dating pool is too small in an already claustrophobic society, leading many queer wix to find partners among Muggles, importing non-magic terminology and ideas to the wix community . . . ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

Harry scanned through the text, searching for bolded words, subheadings, something to break up the wall of text.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ 

_Gay: adjective_ , describes a person who is exclusively attracted romantically and/or sexually to the same gender. Can be used to describe women, and the term has superseded lesbian (see above) in common usage . . .

Bisexual: adjective, describes a person who is romantically and/or sexually attracted to people regardless of gender (see pansexual). Often shortened to “bi.” ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

So that was his mother. Remus. Luna.

He ignored the part of him that whispered, _And you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter illustration image description: The image is digitally illustrated. Two men hold hands and dance on the pages of an open book. Next to them is a posh house. Above them in sketchy handwriting are the words “Merit and Memory by Octavia Whorl.” The setup is reminiscent of a pop-up book.]
> 
> I'm releasing this chapter early to make up for being late last time! Hope you all are enjoying the end of the summer, and if not, I'm sending positive vibes your way.


	9. Felix's Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's too busy reading love stories to realize he's in one.

 

Looking back on how many books Harry had read from Luna’s library, it must have more than doubled the number of books he’d read in his entire life. After his first week of binge-reading, he reached book fifteen, _Kohaku of the Haunted Island._ The book’s cover featured a young Japanese man who periodically disappeared and reappeared.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

“Who are you? You’re . . . a ghost.” The panic Reo had felt upon seeing the man receded. “Can you speak?” If he kept talking, he could ignore his fear.

The ghost shook his head, then gestured toward the base of his neck.

“You can’t speak. But you can understand Japanese. I suppose you look Japanese . . .” Reo studied his angular features, his traditional clothing. The robes were unfamiliar, but then again, he knew little about older wizarding communities in Japan, and just as little about whatever time period this man had died in. “Can you nod for yes, shake your head for no?”

The man nodded.

“When did you die?”

The man didn’t react.

“Okay . . . did you live in Tokyo?”

The man shook his head.

“Are you looking for someone?” No. “Are you going to hurt me?” No. “If you wanted to, could you hurt me?” A shrug. “Did people shrug when you were alive?” Another shrug. “Do you know what shrugging means?” A nod. “Can I put on music? It’s a bit creepy with you just standing there.” A nod.

“Oh, maybe I should write out kana so we can communicate.” He fetched a pad of paper and began to copy down hiragana, in addition to writing out common responses, such as “No,” “Yes,” “I don’t know,” and “I would prefer not to say.”

The ghost stepped closer and reached past Reo to touch “ko,” “ha,” and “ku.”

“Kohaku. It’s a nice name. Are you afraid to tell me your last name because I would look you up online?”

Kohaku rolled his eyes.

This reaction surprised Reo. “You must have died recently. Anyhow, it’s a bit familiar to just call you ‘Kohaku-san,’ isn’t it? What’s your surname?”

Kohaku shook his head.

“Hm. Please tell me when you’re able. How old are you? 20? Oh, older. 21? 22–no, I already guessed that. 23? 24? So you’re 24. I’m 19. Is that in ghost years? You look the same age as me.”

Kohaku just stared. His gaze wasn’t threatening, but it was intense. When had he gotten so close?

“If you could move objects, you could use a pen to write, or something . . . No.” Reo glanced at the clock. “I have to make myself dinner. Are you staying, or do you have someone else to haunt?” Kohaku didn’t reply, just continued looking at Reo. “Alright then, make yourself at home.”

The ghost sat down at the table and idly looked around the room as Reo fetched the ingredients and pulled out a book of cooking spells.

“I’m not normally this talkative. But since I’ve started university, I haven’t made many friends. You’re the first person I’ve had a long conversation with. Except you’re not even talking.”

“Next time.”

The voice, soft and deep, sent Reo’s heart into a panic. He turned around, shocked, but Kohaku had disappeared. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

By now, Harry could easily see where the story was headed. Reo and the ghost would become closer, one of them would fall in love, and by the end, they would confess but realize it was impossible to be together. Knowing the inevitable ending of the story both compelled Harry to keep reading and repelled him from continuing; the conflict drew him in but the predictability made him somewhat bitter.

And at first, the story went as he’d guessed it would. The two became closer as Kohaku’s abilities strengthened, his voice fading in and out, strong one day and distant the next. They fell into a routine, spending more and more time together as Reo’s pursued his studies, even (to Harry’s secondhand embarrassment) bathing together.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

Kohaku shook his head, pointed at Reo, then gestured at his own face, and patted his heart. He repeated the motion until Reo said slowly, “You like my face?” When Kohaku nodded, Reo laughed. “Even when it’s red, I guess.”

Apparently Kohaku wasn’t finished. He pointed again at Reo, then ran his fingers down his own arm before putting a hand over his heart.

“I think I’ve lost you.”

Kohaku gestured for a pen and paper.

“Alright.” Used to the spell, Reo waved his hand and the materials floated over. After Kohaku finished writing, he passed the note to Reo, who read silently once, then again, and again.

_You’re beautiful._

This took a moment to sink in. Reo avoided Kohaku’s eyes, fresh embarrassment rushing into his face. His fingers trembled over the words. “Why would you say that?” He slid the paper back to Kohaku.

When the paper returned, it said, _Because it’s true._

“But . . . it’s strange to say this sort of thing when we’re like this.”

This time, it took a bit longer for him to receive a reply. After a minute, the paper said: _No stranger than you and I, talking to each other every day._

As they stared at each other, Reo grew increasingly self-conscious. “You only give me half-truths. I can tell.”

Kohaku put his foot through Reo’s calf, then raised an eyebrow, as if to say, “See?”

Reo stared. “But you’re . . . I felt you.”

Kohaku raised an eyebrow, grinning, then held out his hand. Hesitating only a moment, Reo took it. It was solid—but no sooner had he realized this than Kohaku was gone.

Reo’s heart raced. Something was about to change. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

Harry knew little about the magic of other regions in the world, so he had no idea whether the plot twist at the end of the book was at all based in reality:

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

Reo opened his eyes and sat up. He wasn’t in his bedroom. Had he visited a friend? Gotten drunk and blacked out? No, he remembered getting in his own bed. And this room was unlike any he had seen outside of a museum, lacking the artificial whites and plastics of a student apartment in Tokyo, instead in a traditional style better suited to the Edo period.

Just before he was ready to get out of there, the door slid open and Kohaku walked in, dressed in kimono, lithe frame fitting perfectly with the size of the furniture, so that Reo knew this had to be his home. Was this a memory or a vision?

When Kohaku made eye contact with Reo, the scene evaporated, and he was back in his bed. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

Shortly after, it was revealed that Kohaku belonged to a thousand-year-old wizarding community hidden off of the coast of Japan. The people possessed unique Apparating powers that allowed them to project themselves elsewhere within a reasonable distance. The Apparitions created by their ability made them ghostlike if they weren’t anchored by strong familiarity of a place.

The possibility occurred to Harry that perhaps his father’s family was descended from a time-traveling community, and that had caused the time loop. He recruited Hermione to help him pursue this idea, trying to keep his hope in check.

“It’s an interesting idea, Harry, but I’ve never heard of such a community. That sort of thing is usually learned, not genetic.”

“What about Tonks? She’s a Metamorphmagus.”

“And she’s known it all her life. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but considering you’ve never manipulated time on your own before . . .”

“Right. You’re probably right.”

“How did you get this idea, anyhow?”

“A book.”

“Can I read it?”

“No!” said Harry quickly—too quickly, so that Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Er, if you read it now, you’d forget it when the day resets anyway.”

Back in the library the next day, Luna gave him another book he had yet to read. “This one is quite unusual but it has a happy ending,” she said, tapping the spine of _Hungry: the sequel in three parts_ by Kurt Henriksen. The real book turned out to be _Lust_ by Isak Nystrøm, a novel written at the turn of the century about a man who, after dozens of heart-rending flings at university, takes a ten-year vow of chastity. Oslo, his choice of a new place to live, proves to provide a healthy new beginning, largely thanks to the group of academics he grows close to over the first couple of years. When they find out about his celibacy, they secretly wager that they’d be able to find someone alluring enough to make him break his vow. Jeger, one of the friends, lets the protagonist in on the secret bet with the promise of splitting half of his winnings if he makes it a full ten years. Each attempt to break his vow ends with some comedic fiasco.

A year before the bet expires, one of these friends introduces the protagonist to Rav, a man from Denmark who happens to be a Metamorphmagus.

Of course, they fall in love.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

“I lost twenty crowns!” I waved my hands wildly about, almost sobbing.

“You what? Are you out of your mind now?”

“All I had to do was wait a month . . . I just am infatuated with you, Rav . . . you are the most handsome man I’ve ever known, I could no longer hold back . . .”

“What are you saying?” asked Rav, pulling on his nightshirt and walking to my side.

“I took a vow of chastity to help myself focus. My writing, you know . . . But I refrained from intimacy with you because if I went ten years without touching another person I would get twenty crowns. Now Jeger’s out of his money, too!” I came to my senses and went to Rav. “No amount of money could have kept me away from you, not for long.”

He was too good for this world, looking at me with the biggest brown eyes I had ever seen. How could I resist this man, chiseled by the gods in every new form he took?

“You say you love me, but you lied.”

“I wanted to use the money to take you on a trip through Europe.” His brown eyes became blue as he stared at me. “What do you want me to say?”

“That we should travel Europe anyhow. I want you to come to Denmark.” ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

Harry found the book quite odd on the whole, but he supposed it was intended to be that way. It made him wonder to what extent Tonks Metamorphmagused herself and left him frustrated with the narrator for depriving himself of something he so clearly wanted.

Despite his annoyance, there was something addictive about stories in which the protagonist had not experienced or did not understand love, then found it. Love was so obvious to Harry, especially since he knew those who had no true concept of love, whose ignorance connected to their larger evils. It was one thing to know he could love, but quite another to have faith that he would experience romantic love as strong as the characters in the books he read. The books filled a space in his heart while also worsening his loneliness.

Luna told him there were only half a dozen books left that she felt were worth reading, so he memorized their titles and took his time getting through them.

The first of the remaining books had a cover illustrated with an intricate scene. The illustration took thirty seconds to complete its animation—the white cover slowly cleared away to reveal an island in the mist, and boats filled with people slowly slid into view, before disappearing into the mist again.

The main characters were a group of Korean high school students who decide to find a fabled island in the East Sea, but separate when a typhoon suddenly hits them. Most of the story follows two boys who unlock the secrets of the island, which enhances their magic as it also consumes them.

 ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

“Iseul-hyung!” Ye-Jun ran to his friend, or what his friend had become—his body had been absorbed by the large tree beside the pond. When he reached out to touch the tree, his eyes were flooded with memories, some real, some invented.

As he tried to grasp each memory, he found he was unable to recall what he had just seen. Pushing his mind in one huge heave, Ye-Jun broke free from the trap. He couldn’t remember his name, or where he was, only that he had to free the person in front of him. Ye-Jun ran to the tree, placed his hands on the shoulders of the boy in the bark, and pulled. They stumbled backwards and before either of them could think, Ye-Jun kissed Iseul. His memories returned in a flash. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

If Harry hadn’t read so many other stories where friends of the same sex realized their feelings for one another, he may have been surprised by the kiss. Now he knew what signs to look for: the mutual obsession, stolen glances, unexplained embarrassment, and the final ingredient—fate. Sometimes there were signs that their relationship would blow up in the characters’ faces, other times Harry knew that out of the drama they would end up together.

Still, whenever he thought he had the formula figured out, and grew tired of the same conflicts, characters, and tropes, something would surprise him.

A novella from Mexico was one such story, as its protagonist Marcia had no interest in physical intimacy, which Harry didn’t realize was possible. Marcia left school to become an apprentice for an architect in the wizarding community parallel to Mexico City. One of the men there took a liking to her. She initially turned him down, certain it would never work, until she found out he was only interested in her romantically.

In a South American short story collection, he read a Brazilian tale called “A Passagem Velada” in which the protagonist and her female friend fall in love. The protagonist is promised to be married to a wealthy male suitor, but becomes lovers with her friend in secret. When the suitor discovers this, he kills the protagonist, only to be later sacrificed by the lover in order to bring the protagonist from the dead.

In just a few weeks, Harry had familiarized himself with the rich history of queer desire and complex aspirations of the community. So what was holding back everyone else? Why would the wizarding community, already persecuted by the majority of the world, further divide itself? Hermione, he knew, would take up this cause if she learned about it. She would undoubtedly read three times as many books as he did in half the time.

The book he had saved for last was called _To London, with Love._ It took place in the 1950s, ten years before it had been written by a Scottish author. It followed a forty-year-old man who worked in the Ministry of Magic for the Muggle-wizard relations department. He went undercover to investigate a dealer of magical construction materials. Apparently—and Harry wondered if this really happened—Muggles wanted the supplies to rebuild more quickly after the destruction resulting from World War II.

⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

Graham burst into the room, about to order Anton to put his hands up, when he spotted the man lying in the middle of the floor. He ran to the body, dread hitting him in the gut— _Is he dead?_ —but the warm breath on the back of his hand told him otherwise. There were no signs of a struggle, which led him to the most likely conclusion: wizards had taken him out.

“Let’s get you some help,” he said, and Disapparated with the body. At St. Mungo’s, there was a ward designed to imitate a Muggle hospital, with fake electrical equipment and crude metal tools, so as not to induce panic in non-magic patients.

Once the doctors assessed the Muggle, the two were left alone in the room.

Graham had been practicing his German in his head. “I studied German in my twenties, before the war,” he said, even thoughhe knew the man could not understand. “Er, _wann ich—als ich dreiundzwanzig war, habe ich Deutsch gelernt. Aber . . .”_ What was the verb for forget? “ _I vergesse viel. Ich habe viel vergessen? Vergisst?_ That’s not right . . .”

The man waited for him to decide, then said slowly, _“Ich heisse Anton. Ich bin vierunddreissig Jahre alt.”_

So he was 34. _“Ich heisse Graham!_ My name is Graham. _Und ich bin vierzig Jahre alt. Ich will Sie Englisch lehren, also dann Sie mehr remembieren können._ Ah, I’m butchering this, aren’t I? You can’t stick “ieren” onto any English word and hope it’s a German word . . . And is _also_ a subordinating conjunction? Maybe you can teach me German, since I clearly have room for improvement. _Können Sie mir Deutsch lehren?”_

_“Du kannst ‘du’ sagen.”_ Anton tapped his head. _“Und es ist ‘erinnern.’”_

“Oh! _Du_ instead of _Sie_ —we’ve only just met, though? Er, right, then.” Between his own ineptitude at using the German language and Anton’s distracting lips, Graham wished he could start their entire interaction over,.

The door opened and a group of Healers entered. A woman led the group, greeted them with a smile, and sat down next to Anton’s bed. They exchanged conversation in rapid German for several minutes as Graham did his best to follow. He hoped he caught the gist of it, that Anton was feeling okay, he couldn’t remember, no, and no again, and another explanation of how he was feeling and what he had done over the past few years.

Lacking the words to fully understand, Graham followed Anton’s expression closely. The man was staring at the woman intently, and it was obvious that he should, what with her perfect hair and curvaceous figure. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

Harry’s heart sank. Graham was going to get discouraged from pursuing Anton, only to later find that Anton fancied him all along. Or Anton would swing from men to women and ultimately leave Graham. At least, it seemed to be headed in that direction, until there was an abrupt chapter from Anton’s perspective that clarified his feelings. With the pair on the same page, they finally coupled up.

 ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎ ⁑ ⁂ ⁑ ⁎

_“Wie sagt man,_ ‘Can I kiss you?’”

_“Kann ich dich küssen?_ But I should say, _‘Küss mich.’”_ Anton pulled Graham closer by his collar and kissed him. ⁎ ⁑ ⁂

 

When Harry finished the book, he felt hollow, even though the pair had gotten together and presumably lived happily ever after. Or maybe it was because they got together against his expectations; there was something particular about the story, something uncomfortably free and unabashed that rent his insides.

He had grown tired of living life through others. For every character who got their happy ending, he remembered how others relied on him for theirs. For every time two characters of the same sex kissed, he remembered how it felt when Draco’s hands gripped his arms and how could he know if he liked the kiss when he had been too shocked to consider it? For every character who overcame a societal obstacle, there was a character who could not. Why waste time forcing himself to question things if he could always choose to be with a woman?

“Thank you, Luna,” he said that afternoon when she joined him in the library.

“What for, Harry?”

“You recommended some books to me. Er, the unicorn ones.”

“I did? I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“I’m not one for reading when I don’t have to. But now I get why people do. For at least three months now, I’ve been trapped in the same day and it’s been more difficult than you’d imagine. I needed an escape.”

“Trapped in the same day?”

“Time’s repeating, over and over again, and although it may sound cool, a lot of it is really tedious, even though I’ve discovered things about people—about myself . . .”

“I’m sorry that this is happening to you, Harry.” She hugged him, her slightly puzzled face lingering after they parted. “If I’ve told you to read the books, it must have been more than for you to escape.”

Harry nodded, trying to ignore the queasiness in his gut. She was seeing something in himself that he didn’t want her to see, and so quickly. “So, er, d’you mind if I . . . ? I’ve got to go back to the common room, I’ll see you around.” He kept to a brisk walk and was relieved to find the dorm room empty once he reached it. Instead of having a cry like he’d expected, he flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling.

_Don’t think about it, think about what to do_. Reading, talking, going to class: life was getting too tedious to stand. So to make things more interesting, he was inventing things about himself. Trying to repeat the stories of those he cared about, those he read about. Weaving together misunderstandings to complicate things. He hated that feeling, of having life slow down enough that he was left solely with his thoughts. Most of his childhood had been spent that way—kept from books, television, other children.

If it had been so easy for him to deny the unexplained phenomena as a child, the things that happened to him that pointed toward difference. Why should he be special? He was already different enough— brown, skinny, weird, bullied—all that on top of inexplicable leaps onto the school kitchen roof and fast-growing hair. He wasn’t afforded any explanation, any support for what set him apart. What would it have been like, being raised by two wizarding parents, a father who looked like him and a mum who was . . . he had to stop entertaining the idea.

He started to wonder about everything, about stolen glances at the more alluring parts of the same gender and when awareness crossed into curiosity. No, none of it mattered. Why speculate when it was nothing? When he fancied Ginny, a girl; when he’d hardly ever fancied anyone?

A possible escape route drove him out of his fevered doubt: he had a vial of Felix Felicis. Hermione had told him months back that the potion wouldn’t be strong enough to end the time loop and that he’d risk wasting it if the time loop ended. But he had waited long enough.

When he had used Felix Felicis to get information from Slughorn, he’d had a purpose. It seemed at first to take him out of his way by bringing him to Aragog’s funeral before ultimately setting up the exact right moment to get what he needed. He hoped that if he used it now, some purpose or strategy would emerge.

As soon as he awoke the next day, he took a generous sip of the potion. Immediately, the Felix made him feel euphoric. He waited for the spark, the instinct of what to do, and it told him, _Knockturn Alley._

There was one potion he had not yet tried, and now he remembered that Myrtle had suggested it months ago: Polyjuice Potion. So after spending the day being more inconspicuous than he had been the entire loop, he traveled to Diagon Alley via the Floo Network, withdrew money from Gringotts, applied a few disguise charms, and found an apothecary in Knockturn Alley.

Without bothering to scan the shelves himself, he went directly to the counter. “I’m looking for Polyjuice Potion.”

The shopkeep raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s a restricted substance. Seventeen and older only.”

Impatient, Harry slid her forty galleons, five times the asking price for four hours of potion. Attempting to hide a self-satisfied smile, the shopkeep summoned a large flask and pocketed most of the coins.

Back at Hogwarts, and with Ron and Hermione’s help, Harry body-bound Pansy, hiding her in the Room of Requirement. While he conferred with Dobby about an escape plan for the night, Hermione used the Invisibility Cloak to sneak into the Slytherin’s girls’ dormitory to steal some of Pansy’s clothes.

“Why would anyone want to live there?” Hermione’s face was screwed up in distaste as she handed Harry his now invisible glasses. “I’m glad I finally saw it, though.”

“No Gryffindor would trade it for what we have, that’s for certain.”

On his way to the dungeon under the cloak and in Pansy’s clothes, Harry drank half of the Polyjuice Potion, popped two mints in his mouth, then went to the entrance and recited the password: “Salazar.” He pocketed the cloak and entered the dungeon.

The common room was full of students studying, conversations kept to whispers under the greenish glow of the lamps and windows overhead. When he thought of the Gryffindor common room, the first words that came to mind were “familiar,” “cozy,” and “warm.” This was strange, unyielding, and cold, but remarkably posh. Feeling more relaxed under Felix’s influence despite his ignorance to the larger point of his being there, more details stood out to him about the room: silver adornments on the high chairs, a number of large black leather sofas, and faded medieval tapestries that hung on the stone walls. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle sat at a desk in the corner, and as Harry approached them, he noticed that Malfoy wasn’t reading, just staring into space. Harry was accustomed to his listless expression, but still found it troubling. If the company of his friends in a safe place didn’t do much to help his mood, what would?

“Hi, Draco.”

Malfoy looked up at him, dull expression at once sharp. “Ah, Pansy, I was wondering where you were.” He had recently showered, so his usually slick hair flopped over his forehead. His boyhood self was merely a shadow in his gaunt features, an even starker contrast when next to his longtime friends, who showed no signs of the same level of stress. “Come with me, I’m going to bed. Crabbe, Goyle, you can wait up till midnight, can’t you? Tell Zabini and Pike, too, if you see them.”

Crabbe and Goyle snickered. “Sure, mate.”

Despite Malfoy’s implication, no alarm bells rang in Harry’s head. _He’s bluffing._

As they walked up the stairs, Draco asked Harry, tone flat, “Are you planning to grow out your hair?”

“I’m not sure.” The Felix nudged him. “No, I’m going to cut it short.”

“Good, I like it much better short.”

They passed a mirror on the way to his room. Pansy’s straight black hair fell past her jawline, almond eyes a striking hazel hue, reminding him vaguely she was mixed race, white and Korean. For some reason, he was both relieved and annoyed that no one would think they looked alike.

Once in the dorm, Harry sat down on what appeared to be Malfoy’s bed, if the “DM” insignia on the duvet was any clue. He noted, unsurprised, that their beds were considerably larger than the ones in his dorm. Tall arched windows filtered in the same green light that illuminated the common room.

Malfoy sat down next to him and rested his head in Harry’s lap, just as he had with Pansy on the Hogwarts Express. His head felt heavy, surprisingly solid, and the position was childlike, with a suggestion of vulnerability and trust that caught Harry off guard. Beginning at Malfoy’s temple, he ran his fingers through his hair. It didn’t feel intimate, just calculated, like a cheery greeting before asking a favor. “Are you feeling well, Draco?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look tired, is all. Have you been sleeping enough?”

“Not really.”

Malfoy’s skin was stretched over his cheekbones, and there were dark circles under his eyes, more prominent up close. Though his pale skin tended to be clear, a few spots dotted his upper lip. “This school is getting on my nerves. Potter, the blood-traitor Weasley, the Mudblood girl, Dumbledore . . .”

“Well, they’re not here. It’s just you and me.” Harry’s fingers twitched with the effort not to yank Malfoy’s hair, the Felix’s mental leash straining.

Malfoy scoffed. Maybe he would argue under different circumstances, but he had spent at least half an hour crying in the bathroom and was undoubtedly exhausted.

“Can I massage your back?” asked Harry, moving a hand to his shoulder.

He looked at Harry strangely. “I suppose so. Yes, give me a massage. That would help.” He sat up and faced away from Harry, who placed his hands on Malfoy’s shoulders.

He kneaded Malfoy’s back for what seemed like ages. Without the soothing effect of the Felix Felicis, it would have been disconcerting to touch him in this way, albeit alone in his room, and for so long.

“That’s enough.” Malfoy returned to his position beside Harry, head back in his lap.

Harry stroked Malfoy’s hair, silent, until the potion urged him to try something new. He ran the back of his fingernails across his neck, raising goosebumps on his pale skin.

Malfoy closed his eyes and sighed. “That feels good.”

Harry stayed silent, heart racing, even though his mind was calm and sure.

Malfoy raised his arms, stretched, and turned on his back, looking up at Harry/Pansy. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“I was just thinking of what we’ll do once we win the war.”

Malfoy chuckled, the reaction nearly a purr. “My family will be rewarded for everything we’ve done for the Dark Lord. The manor was last expanded in the nineteenth century, so we will oversee renovations in the twenty-first, and you can visit whenever you like.”

“I’d like that.” Harry flushed under Malfoy’s gaze. Because he was in Pansy’s body, he must be reacting as she would react, seeing Malfoy like he was, his arms over his head, staring with heavy-lidded eyes.

Malfoy tilted his head up slightly—an invitation—and they kissed. It was nothing like the Amortentia-induced kiss; it was detached, brief, formal, what Harry might’ve imagined the peck of a faded marriage to feel like.

Malfoy’s lips were cold and chapped, but his breath was warm. When he pulled away, he sighed. “I’m going to bed.”

Harry fought desperately against what the Felix told him to do. Surely this had gone on long enough. But it was futile; his mouth had other plans. “Can I lie with you for a while?”

“If you want.” Malfoy crossed to his drawers and rummaged for pajamas. He took off his shirt, revealing the dark tattoo that coiled up his left forearm.

Harry had seen the mark before, but he hadn’t known if any of Malfoy’s friends were aware he was a Death Eater.

“I love how you look with the Dark Mark, Draco.” Internally, Harry cursed every fiber of his being for sounding so vapid.

“I do, too.” Malfoy smirked at Harry as he pulled on his shirt. “Want to borrow something of mine to wear?”

“Yes.”

Malfoy searched for something, then threw Harry a button-down.

Harry didn’t feel Malfoy’s eyes on him as he quickly changed, which was odd. He started to pull down the black tights Pansy wore under her skirt, then stopped. The tops of Pansy’s thighs were webbed with harsh blue lines that crackled across her skin like lightning. He stared at them, wondering what on earth could have caused such marks. When he turned around, Malfoy was staring abstractedly into space, just as he had in the common room.

Harry cleared his throat, breaking Malfoy’s concentration. After he sniffed and blinked a few times, Malfoy gestured for Harry to lay behind him, even though Pansy was shorter by several inches.

Harry crawled over to where Malfoy had indicated and stretched out beside him. He took a small comfort in knowing that to Malfoy, he was a girl, and it would serve some purpose to do whatever it was he was there for. Even if he didn’t know what he was doing, at least the Felix had a plan. Surely it wasn’t necessary for him to like the scent of the bedclothes—

And then the Felix clued him in to the point of infiltrating Malfoy’s dorm room. Harry would wait until he was asleep, then rummage through his things. There was something he’d missed in Malfoy’s plan. He glanced at his watch; it was ten thirty. He probably had a half an hour left until he had to drink more Polyjuice Potion.

Harry wrapped his arms around Malfoy. It felt peculiar to be pressed against Malfoy in a girl’s body, though oddly comforting.

Malfoy turned onto his other side and nudged Harry to do the same. As Malfoy held him, he tactfully avoided touching Pansy’s chest, but his own modesty from lying fully against Harry was not quite salvaged. Eventually, his awkwardness faded, and despite himself, his breathing slowed. Malfoy’s breath was warm, stirring the baby hairs on his neck. It was the longest he had ever been held like this, and it felt good, even if it was with Malfoy. There was nothing inappropriate about what they were doing, it just felt like a prolonged hug. Normally, he would only feel grateful he wasn’t pushed to do more, but under the influence of the potion—he wondered why Malfoy wasn’t trying anything else.

And then his mind caught up with him. The Felix dulled his panic, but doubts still struggled to the surface and he broke into a sweat. Was it the Polyjuice Potion? Had he taken on Pansy’s feelings for Malfoy? And if not, did that mean what he suspected? Whether it was the Felix who reassured him or his own reasoning, Harry only managed not to run away by deciding his enjoyment was purely out of his need for physical comfort.

Eventually, Harry could tell the hour mark was approaching. He told Malfoy he had to use the loo, drank the rest of the potion, then returned. Malfoy had taken off his shirt, watching as Harry quickly chewed a mint and crossed the room, stopping at the side of Malfoy’s bed. “What are we doing, Draco? Do you fancy me?”

Malfoy straightened, looking uncomfortable without his shirt, like he thought taking it off was merely what he was expected to do. “I’ve told you, I don’t want anything serious. Where is this coming from, anyhow?”

“I’m ready to go further, but you keep pushing me away.” Harry felt ridiculous, but the lines easily came to him. “Are you not attracted to me?”

“Pansy, you are being absurd. Of course I am, it’s just hard for me to want a relationship with everything that’s going on.”

Harry didn’t know how Pansy would act in this situation. The Felix didn’t seem to be guiding him to act like she normally would. “You can tell me anything, you know that, right?”

“You know I can’t, Pansy.”

“I don’t mean about the Dark Lord.”

“What, then?”

Harry sat down on the bed next to Malfoy. “Do you prefer blokes?”

A deep red color spread across Malfoy from his chest to his face, and his hand twitched. “What do you mean?”

“Is that why you won’t touch me?”

Malfoy scoffed. “You think I won’t touch you? What have we been doing just now?”

“My family knows a few people who are more inclined toward the same sex. I can’t tell you who they are, but—”

Malfoy raised his hand as if to slap him, but balled his fingers back into a fist at his side. “Don’t ever accuse me of something like that again. Get out.”

“But—”

_“Get out!”_

“You’re not going to even try to convince me otherwise?”

Draco looked as though he wanted nothing more than to strangle her. “Why would I bother convincing you of something so obvious?”

“Because the alternative is that there’s a problem with _me_. That I’m not good enough for you.”

Malfoy sneered. “You’ve gone mad.”

“Have I? We haven’t done anything in a long time. I don’t know what to think.”

“Yes, well . . . I have a lot on my mind. I wish I could think about you as I used to, but . . .” He exhaled dramatically, clenching and unclenching his fist, his anger dissipating.

“I’m sorry for accusing you of something so . . . perverse.”

“Just try to control your emotions, for Merlin’s sake. Girls are so bloody sensitive.” Malfoy ran his hands through his hair, then noticed Harry staring at him. “What?”

“I want to stay the night with you. We don’t have to do anything. But I don’t want to sleep alone.” _What was he saying?_ It was likely the only way to get Malfoy to fall asleep so Harry could go through his things.

Malfoy scoffed. “No, not after what you said. You should leave.”

“Won’t the others think it’s strange, kicking me out so soon? Zabini already doubts we’ve done anything serious.”

“What?” said Malfoy sharply. “He said something to you about it?”

“I had difficulty convincing him otherwise.” Harry casually examined his fingernails, which were trimmed short and painted black. “If I stay tonight, though . . . I’ll tell the boys we slept together.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, nearly concealing their gleam, which reflected the dim green light. “You say that as though it’s a favor. Our family name—if my mother were to somehow catch word of the rumor—”

“It will stay a rumor. Act coy with your friends, earnest with your family.”

Malfoy stared at him, resting his chin on his curled fingers. Harry knew he would agree, so he remained silent, waiting.

“Fine.” Malfoy pulled back the duvet and rolled underneath onto one side of the bed.

Relieved, Harry climbed in next to him. All was not lost.

It took ten minutes of fidgeting for Malfoy’s breathing to slow. He stretched an arm over Harry, now facing him, the lack of composure in his face disconcerting. Lines of stress and fatigue had faded away, leaving only the points of his chin and cheekbones.

He pulled Harry closer, mumbling incoherently.

_Merlin._ Noticing other people’s casual intimacy on a day-to-day basis, embracing Hermione and Ginny, kissing Cho—these experiences could not have prepared Harry for _this,_ for studying Malfoy’s expression, his slack and unworried features, breathing in the traces of hair gel and lived-in bedsheets . . . Was it the Felix that made him study the gradual slope of Malfoy’s hips, his bare torso? What purpose did it have to send a prickling sensation from where Malfoy gripped his shoulder? He couldn’t help wondering how Malfoy felt when he wasn’t so skinny, his elbows and ribs blunt under soft skin, when his lips weren’t chapped and his fingernails weren’t chewed to the bit.

His body reverting to normal jolted Harry awake—he must have slept for an hour, then. Carefully slipping out of bed, he cast the Muffling Charm, then downed more potion before starting to rifle through Malfoy’s belongings. There were rolls of parchment from past homework assignments, half-full bottles of ink, random unopened trinkets that must have been gifted to him. In the next drawer, he found concept sketches for the “Potter Stinks” buttons— _So it_ was _him_ , thought Harry, anger suppressed by Felix. He paused when he found a page that must have been torn out of a book. The bolded heading at the top read the imperius curse.

Harry heard the bed creak, so he stuffed the paper back and closed the drawer. Before turning around, he flicked his wand to release the Muffling Charm and popped a mint in his mouth.

“What are you doing?”

“I just thought—to be convincing, I’d strew our clothes about.”

“Hm. You done, then?”

Harry tossed Pansy’s shirt onto the floor, then climbed back into bed, mind working through what he had discovered. Why the Imperius Curse? Malfoy was capable of using the Cruciatus Curse, he knew that now. The Imperius Curse would be innocuous, though, if he had done it correctly. Was there someone he had forced to do his bidding?

Another hour passed, this time with Harry resting his head on Malfoy's chest as he slept. He began to feel his body change, but there was no more Polyjuice Potion. Shifting only slightly under Malfoy’s grip, Harry reached for his robes and pulled the potion out of the pocket.

The Felix told him to rub his thumb over Malfoy’s lips, rousing him halfway from his sleep.

“You’re dreaming,” said Harry, voice low.

“Potter . . . ?” Because it was so unlikely for Harry to be in his bed, Malfoy didn’t panic, just closed his eyes and made a small sound as he exhaled, as though he were dying and the future was entirely irrelevant.

There was a sudden rush of laughter from outside the room and the door opened, shooting panic through the two boys.

Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini stood staring at them in the glow of their wands. As realization dawned in Malfoy’s eyes, Harry leapt out of bed and said, “Dobby!” The house-elf whisked him away to the Gryffindor dorm.

Now safe, Harry brusquely told Dobby to leave and evaded Ron’s questions. He rolled into bed, then took a sleeping draught and fell into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter illustration image description: Illustrated in black and white, sketchy style. The illustration is of Pansy Parkinson’s reflection in a mirror from the chest up. She’s wearing her uniform sans her robes and has a hand on her head, either rubbing her head or feeling her hair. She looks faintly distressed, but without context is difficult to read. As described in the chapter, she is biracial Korean British with short black hair.]
> 
> If you’ve enjoyed these little one-off ideas, check out my one-shot fics! I have Ginny x OC, Albus P x Scorpius M, and Sirius x Remus. I’ve also thrown around the idea of fleshing out one of these stories further, if there’s one that’s caught your fancy in particular let me know.


	10. A Difficult Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco who? Harry was supposed to love Ginny—they're meant to be.  
> Chapter illustration image description in the chapter end notes.

 

Heart racing, Harry woke up and quickly looked at his nightstand.

_I cannot use Felix again._ Not only had Felix betrayed his trust, but it made him manipulate Malfoy like the vampire Carmilla—sneaking into his bedroom, taking advantage of him under false pretenses. He wanted to get out of his skin, even more so for the part of him whispering that because time had reset it didn’t matter what he’d done to Malfoy.

Taking a quavering breath, he drew his comforter over his head. He had learned very little, apart from the possibility that Malfoy had used the Imperius Curse and that Pansy had a close relationship with him, though not as intimate as he had expected.

First the memories Malfoy had given him after the Amortentia, and now this. He had seen into Malfoy’s very being, the hard edges of him, the literal soft side of him, the good and the unfortunate and the loathsome.

Could he even call Malfoy by his surname anymore? Only after crossing it had he realized there was a line between _Malfoy_ , the cruel, entitled prat, and _Draco_ , the boy he had discovered crying in the bathroom, the boy who wanted to be held.

Maybe the unicorn books had gotten to him, making him see his former rival in metaphors: _Malfoy_ was a Quidditch game in the middle of an autumn downpour. He was unpleasant from the stands, equal parts thrilling and terrible in the middle. Despite his better judgement pulling him to safety, Harry allowed the rain to wash over him, resisting its force as he pursued the Snitch.

Something approaching _Draco_ was the far edge of the Great Lake, the bleeding dark and green of the trees, perpetually shifting between ferocity and beauty. When Harry visited the lake and looked across the glassy surface of the water to the horizon, he felt filled with wonder and simultaneously hollow-hearted from the scale of it all. The trees must look the same on the other side as they did on his, and yet he couldn’t imagine how.

_Draco_ was still a mystery.

Another voice in the back of his mind told Harry that calling Draco by his first name meant accepting a new version of him. Still, it would be foolish to continue pretending “Malfoy” was all he knew.

“Harry, are you feeling all right?”

Moving his duvet so Ron would hear him, Harry replied curtly, “No, I’m feeling a bit ill; no, the Hospital Wing won’t be necessary; yes, I should feel better tomorrow.”

“Er, right then. If you feel better by lunch, meet us in the Great Hall.”

The past weeks lying in bed, reading, thinking—Harry may as well have been back in Number Four Privet Drive, holed up in his room or the cupboard under the stairs. There, he either didn’t have any alternatives or wished to avoid the nastiness of his family. Now, it was the time loop trapped him instead of the Dursleys. For months, Harry had tried to come to terms with his situation, but it was exhausting. The lines he had heard dozens of times ricocheted in his head:

“Are you well?”

“Transfiguring the self requires concentration, a precise touch.”

“This omelette is delicious.”

“You’ve already said that.”

_“No one can help me.”_

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been living the same day over and over again.”

“I’m so sorry, Harry.”

“Have you read this book?”

Harry pressed his face into his pillow. Those pillows had smelled different, like someone else. Like Draco.

Rolling onto his back, Harry considered everything that had happened the other night. That intimacy was dangerous enough to unscrew something inside him, make him feel feverish, like the characters overwhelmed in the unicorn books. He was so disoriented that he was only dimly aware of getting out of bed, dressing, and walking to Professor Trelawney’s classroom. Thinking back as he wavered at the foot of the ladder, he couldn’t remember if he had passed anyone on the way, and wondered if he looked mad.

It was only after he was inside the classroom and knocked on her office door that he remembered what must have brought him here: Trelawney was the only professor he had yet to speak to about the time loop.

When he opened the door, she was standing just a few feet from him, eyes wide, staring forward into nothing. Harry swore, shocked out of his trance by her own open-mouthed expression.

She spoke quietly, though the words didn’t align with the way her lips moved and her voice carried in layers, as though the same track was playing from multiple speakers. “Can’t see. Can’t see. Too much . . . how to see . . .”

Her state of mind and mannerisms seemed different than what he had witnessed in his third year. “Er, Professor?”

Without moving her head, her eyes shifted ever so slightly so that she looked directly at Harry. In a much lower tone, she said, “The estranged will survive and reunite at the passage . . . The one who restored time will expire as the loved ones return.” The echoing voices returned, repeating, “Can’t see, can’t see, can’t see clearly. Where? When?”

Harry cast about for a parchment and quill. On Trelawney’s classroom desk, there was a quill and parchment but no visible inkwell. He left her standing in her office and dug through the mess of supplies to find ink, and when he did, quickly wrote what she had said to the best of his memory. With a final glance at her glassy-eyed stare, he went back down the staircase and headed to the dorm.

The estranged . . . who did he know that was estranged? Percy Weasley was the most likely, but maybe it was someone who would become estranged in the future. And did “the one who restored time” reassure him that time would be restored, that someone else would do it? Expire had to mean die—would he figure out who was going to die and be able to prevent it? This was all assuming Trelawney’s words meant anything. Her eerie delivery didn’t guarantee accuracy. Even if the prophecy was accurate, it was irrelevant to ending the time loop—his more immediate concern. He would have to memorize her words and hope they’d help him later.

At dinner that evening, Ginny approached him and asked if he was feeling alright, as she usually did when he pretended to be ill.

“I’ve been better.” Harry looked past her to Draco, who was staring at him—as he usually did whenever he feigned illness. She was concerned, he was suspicious.

As exhausted and stressed as Draco was, the least he could do was make more of an effort to eat his dinner, of which he hardly ever ate much. Telling him to eat more didn’t typically go over well, though in Harry’s opinion his friends didn’t push hard enough.

“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Er, yeah. I will. Thanks, Ginny.” A ripple of humor passed through him, the same sensation that followed any streak of comedic inspiration in the loop. The best entertainment ensued when Harry didn’t know what would happen. “Actually, could you go over and tell Draco he hasn’t been eating enough? And that the roast beef is delicious. From me.”

Ginny blinked. “Harry, what the hell d’you want me to do that for? How do you suppose he’s going to react?”

“Poorly.”

She crossed her arms. “What will you give me in return if I do it?”

“I’ll do whatever you want for a day. Twenty-four hours.”

Ginny was taken aback. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

She sighed. “Merlin’s sake. Okay. Just—take responsibility if this backfires.”

Harry sat down at the Gryffindor table with Ron and Hermione, watching from the corner of his eye as she made her way over to Draco. The nearby Slytherins fell silent, watching. Zabini straightened, and even Pansy seemed to pull herself together.

He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but before Draco could react, Dean Thomas was at her side, and she awkwardly left with him, shrugging a little when she met Harry’s eyes.

Pansy was rubbing Draco’s shoulder as he tried to burn a hole in the side of Harry’s head. When they finally made eye contact, Harry ate a bite of his roast beef, chewed, swallowed, rubbed his stomach, and gave a thumbs up.

Moving faster than Harry expected, Draco got to his feet and strode over to where he was sitting. Ron and Hermione, oblivious to the whole drama, turned around.

“Mind your own bloody business, Potter,” said Draco.

“Your business is my business, Draco.” _Oh, that’s weird. Calling him Draco in front of other people._ “It’s not pleasant seeing your health decline this way. I miss the energy you used to have.” A line from a couple of the books in Luna’s library came to mind: “I miss us.”

There was some reluctant laughter, probably confusion about whether Harry had been charmed. Regardless, Draco had ventured into enemy territory, and any hostility would be met with force.

“Don’t send your blood-traitor girlfriend to bother me again, or you’ll regret it.”

Ron and a few other Gryffindors stood up. Ginny, who was sitting a few places down, said, “I’m right here, Malfoy. If you want to threaten me, do it to my face.”

Draco shot her a fake smile, then left the Great Hall, his friends in tow.

“What was that about?” asked Hermione.  
“Did he say your girlfriend?” asked Ron at the same time.

“Ah, it doesn’t matter.” As an excuse for his behavior, Harry told them what he knew about Draco’s plans. All the while, he kept thinking about the word “your girlfriend” in Draco’s mouth, and how the assumption upset him.

Why was it upsetting? It had to be because he wished it was true, and Draco had reminded him it wasn’t. Over the course of the loop, he had talked to Ginny every now and then, always platonically. Maybe it was the tone in Draco’s voice, or the way Ginny had looked at him after defending herself that set him on a course to use the coming weeks to spend time with her.

So after the confrontation in the Great Hall, he dedicated a significant share of every day to Ginny. He tried to come up with plausible excuses for talking to her. Homework and Quidditch were the easiest topics, and his first instinct, so he started there.

“When did you get so good at Transfiguration all of a sudden?” asked Ginny, laughing after he turned her hair purple on their way to the Quidditch pitch.

“Oh, I’ve been holding back this whole time.”

“Have you, now? Have you been holding back on every subject?”

He gaped at her in mock-disbelief. “I can’t believe you.”

She laughed. “So should I make the change permanently? Will you turn my freckles purple?”

“But I rather like your hair the way it was.” While this was true, given such a dramatic change in her appearance, he couldn’t stop looking at her.

The confidence she had faltered a bit, but she hid her reaction by dipping her head to tie her hair up. “I understand; I wouldn’t be a Weasley if my hair were purple. You’ll have to change all of us.”

“Can you imagine Ron’s reaction?”

“Yes!” She dropped her voice an octave and dropped her posture a bit. “Harry, don’t you think Lavender will take this as a sign I want her back?”

“Oh God, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Fred and George would love it, though. A hair color–changing potion would do well in their shop.”

As he and Ginny passed a Quaffle back and forth, they continued to chat about the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The next day, they raced each other to catch the Snitch. The days after that, they practiced diving and other moves he had read about but hadn’t had a chance to attempt.

Quidditch quickly became repetitive, so Harry moved their conversations to wherever he could think of around the castle. These days began with a forward approach; he went up to her and asked if she wanted to hang out later. When he felt her eyes on him after, he knew she suspected his intentions may be romantic.

Both of them sensed that they should talk about more than homework and gossip and Quidditch. Harry knew he came across as more serious since the time loop. More than that, he had deeper insight into her and her family, and exhibited a directness that caught her off guard, but which she appreciated.

“What was it like, growing up in the Burrow?”

“Madness. Being the only girl, Mum paid me special attention. Dad, too. But it’s only been really good the past couple years.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being the youngest of the family, I was left out of a lot of things. Just got in the way, you know?”

“I suspect it’s similar for Ron, so yeah.” Ron wanted approval and attention if he could get it, but his ego tended to be fragile. If his arguments with Ron could be generalized in any way, it was that Ron felt smaller compared to his siblings. Fighting for attention and approval for years had affected both of the youngest Weasley siblings.

Harry would have traded the troubles of his home life in an instant for the troubles of the Burrow, though he’d never say it. Still, maybe their childhoods had impacted them in a similar way. Looking back, the shy, emotive Ginny he met at King’s Cross reminded him of himself in his first year at school. “Your personality is so different from five years ago.”

Ginny shrugged. “Same goes for most people. For me, it was a combination of things. No longer being at the bottom of the food chain at this school, the friends I’ve made, earning my brothers’ respect.”

“And you’re not so nervous around me,” said Harry quietly.

Ginny flushed at his change of tone and glanced at him. “The way you’re looking at me now . . . it’s making me nervous all over again.”

Harry stopped walking. The sun, low in the sky, flared momentarily through the clouds, and every freckle on Ginny’s face lit up. She reached out and touched Harry’s cheek as he touched hers. They kissed, and when he threaded his fingers through her hair, it was warm with sunlight. She tasted faintly sweet; her chapstick had mostly worn off, her taste as light as the tip of her tongue.

They broke apart, both grinning. Harry was dazed. Suddenly anything was possible.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” asked Ginny, a bit breathless.

“Ah, nothing much. Only that I’ve fancied you for a year.”

“That long, and you never said anything?”

Their conversation became tense and awkward after this exchange, despite their perfect kiss, so Harry rehearsed what he wanted to say for the next day.

“What does that mean, then?” asked Ginny after they had kissed for what she thought was the first time.

“That I think you’re incredible, and beautiful, and I’m lucky to be your friend, but I’d be even luckier if you went out with me.”

She chuckled and pushed him lightly on his chest. “And I suppose you practiced that? I had no idea you could be so charming. I rather like it when you’re embarrassed and don’t know what to say. I . . . like all sides of you, really.” Ginny knew the effect she was having on him, stepping closer so their faces were inches apart. After she tilted her head up, a request, or permission, Harry kissed her.

_If every day is like this, it wouldn’t be so bad_ , thought Harry, the dragon in him purring, spooling warm smoke into his stomach.

Another time, they hugged before going back to the common room, her arms tight on his back, sighing as he stroked her hair.

On the sixth night, she pulled away when he leaned in, and they parted awkwardly. By the end of the second week, Harry had perfected their first kiss. He knew she liked it when it was soft, surprising them both, leaving her to stare at him like she was seeing him for the first time. Then, she threw her arms around him and they would kiss in earnest.

Dimly, he wondered if he was her rebound or if she had fancied him all along. When they parted once, she told him, “I could say I’ve had feelings for you this entire time. To be honest, my feelings have constantly changed. Some months, I could care less about you. Others, I was obsessed. I needed to have other relationships before I could know for certain if what I felt was real.”

He couldn’t say the same, he had far less experience, and when he searched for reasons why he’d chosen her, it simply felt like fate. It wasn’t a choice. “Did you ever expect you would be snogging me back when you first fancied me?”

She chuckled. “Of course I expected it, I was convinced we were meant for each other.”

To Harry’s profound relief, his escapades with Ginny lessened any confusion Draco had caused. Finally, his brief attraction made sense, as did his interest in boys in general. He had been starved for affection, desperate enough to seek it in the same sex.

He shouldn’t have assumed his frustration with the loop would be at bay forever. Enough first kisses and he wished she remembered, that she fancied him for another day so he could be sure it wasn’t a fluke, so he could feel he wasn’t taking advantage of her. And sure enough, doubt came wriggling back into his head again.

If Ginny were a boy but otherwise the same person, would he not be interested in her? No, that didn’t make sense. She’d still feel like a girl in her mind. Did that mean he didn’t care what she looked like physically? He was getting nowhere investigating this in his head, so he dropped the question. It no longer mattered.

_Hormones, don’t you remember? They can be managed. Tamp them down and your body will sort itself out eventually._

If the Dursleys had taught him anything, it was that ignoring a problem only allows its roots to grow deeper, until you’re too preoccupied with trimming it to ever move on. So his desire to understand intensified.

“This may seem out of the blue, but have you ever been attracted to someone who was the same sex as you?”

After a pause, Ginny replied, “Yeah, most likely.”

“Really? Are you sure? I mean, in that way?”

“Maybe not how you’re thinking. It’s different for girls, we can tell when other girls are pretty, and girls are much better-looking on average than boys.”

“Even if that’s true, men age better.”

Ginny scoffed. “You’re saying that as though it’s fact, but it’s clearly just your opinion. Your poorly-formed opinion. Men lose their hair, they get beer guts, they get creepy or senile or cruel.”

“So we’re having this debate? Women start to sag, they load up on makeup to hide their age, and they’ll go on for ages about people you don’t know and events that happened long before you were born.”

“And men don’t ever talk about the past? I think you’re sexist, Harry Potter.”

“What? But you—” Ginny smirked to tell him she was joking. Or partly joking. “Right. Let’s just agree that we ought to enjoy being young.”

“I can do that,” she said, pulling him closer by the waist.

Feeling a bit of attraction to the same sex was normal. Why shouldn’t Ginny like girls? Under their performances, under their politeness and their awareness of being seen, he saw an itching to be heard, to act, to change. To carve out the same rough edges boys were allowed to keep. By being trapped in the same day, he could perceive girls’ deeper connection to time, their perception of behavior and the interrelatedness of consequences. Girls were more affected by unusual ripples over the course of the day, while boys passively observed, or acted without the same depth of thought.

Even as he wanted to believe this, he noticed the students who broke out of their gendered mold: Neville carried his trauma silently, his eyes sharp for the mistreatment of other students; Marietta Edgecombe was petitioning Dumbledore to let girls wear pants with their uniform; Daphne Greengrass’ conversations about boys were just as crude as he had heard from some of the same boys she spoke about. And although Harry often thought he was becoming cold and detached, other days he held a knowledge of the strings holding everyone together and felt the weight of his decisions as he imagined girls did.

Girls were somewhat other, so generalizing about them was easier than generalizing about his own gender. What was it about boys that appealed to Ginny, then? He found it easier to be around boys and he appreciated the ease with which he could talk to them. To him, the Weasley twins encapsulated what was potentially appealing in boys: wit, confidence, a sense of humor, a desire to lift others up, rebelliousness . . . Even then, he could hardly apply those traits to every boy he knew. And they were perfectly normal things to appreciate in friends.

_I’m still straight. Understanding doesn’t mean_ knowing _. Feeling._

Ginny had more masculine traits than other girls, but did that mean he was attracted to boys? He was driving himself up the wall, trying to pick apart what he wanted.

Eventually, he felt as though he knew Ginny very well. To start, she was very similar to Ron. They had the same cadence of speaking, the same Weasley features, the same expressions to emote. Some of her mannerisms she’d retained since childhood, so she moved like a frame in time, every shot of her past layered behind her as though she stood between two mirrors. Every iteration of her fascinated him: her toned arms as they gripped a broom, the small crinkle between her eyebrows when she tried not to laugh; the way she glared at people whenever they started to talk rudely about someone, the way she sat as though she was ready to spring into action.

He relished his ability to pinpoint everything he liked about her. After a particularly good day with her, he found it difficult to think of Draco in the same way. Everything he could have liked was sharp with an edge of annoyance. Every iteration of Draco annoyed Harry: the exceedingly careful way he gripped his wand, the shape of his mouth when he tried not to smile; the way he glared at people who interrupted him, the way he fidgeted as though a part of him were somewhere else. He sighed constantly, picked at the skin around his nails, always chose the same dessert no matter what day it was in the time loop, constantly itched his left arm, stared too much. 

Some days, Harry felt it didn’t matter if he was attracted to Draco as a person if he wasn’t physically attracted to him, because what was the difference between that and friendship? There were plenty of people he wanted to be closer to platonically. Regardless, he could imagine that even if he wanted to get closer to Draco—to be friends, even—they would simply clash as they had for the last six years.

Other days he felt it didn’t matter if he was attracted to Draco physically if he didn’t want a relationship, because what did that amount to other than teenage hormones? There were plenty of people he could tell were attractive. Regardless, he could see being excited by the novelty of it—being with the same sex—only for it to fizzle out after his curiosity were satisfied. Nearly everything that attracted him to Draco in the first place he could find in Ginny, in a girl, in someone else, in anyone other than him.

Chapped lips.

Thin fingers.

Gray eyes.

He caught himself.

Freckles.

Red hair.

Hazel eyes.

Ginny was looking at him. He had just suggested practicing Quidditch.

“It’s hard to practice with just two people.”

“I figured it’d be more fun if it’s just us.”

Ginny looked at him in surprise. “Yeah. Why not?” In this light, with the setting sun casting a range of beautiful hues, the flames of her hair and her carefree smile impeded his ability to improvise some Quidditch exercises.

“Let’s pass the Quaffle for a while,” said Ginny, once they had retrieved their equipment. She cast some baubles of light to illuminate part of the path as the sun continued to dip below the horizon.

“I’m so glad Ron finally broke up with Lavender.”

“Why?” Harry was too, but he didn’t want to agree until she explained.

“She’s annoying and all, but they were so wrong for each other.”

“You’re right, though to be fair, it’s hard to know if you’re with the right person when you’re with them. And then something happens, and you can’t see them the same way, and whatever was wrong becomes obvious.”

“Is that how it was with Cho?”

She had brought up Cho a couple times before, and he knew it wasn’t jealousy, more of a desire to understand why he had fancied her. Testing him to see if he understood himself. “Sort of. More like I realized that she ought to be with someone more compatible with her, more sensitive.”

“Hm. Very noble of you.”

“Alright, if you want me to relive the day it fell apart, she was crying—”

“What, so you’re not the crying type?”

“Not really. Despite what Rita Skeeter would want you to believe.” He laughed off a vision of Vernon and Petunia’s reaction when they caught him crying.

Eventually, they let the Quaffle drop, and Ginny flew closer to him. “Hey, have you tried this before?”

“Tried what?”

“Here, I have to hold on to your broom, and you hold on to mine.”

They did so, and arms crossed, they kissed a hundred feet off the ground as wind whipped their hair.

The sun had sunk completely by the time they walked back to the castle, and Harry grew quiet.

“Knut for your thoughts?” asked Ginny eventually, smirking.

“You can’t—it sounds wrong when you put it like that.”

“What’s the Muggle expression again?”

“Penny for your thoughts. Anyhow—I was thinking if I would still like you if you were a boy.”

“Oh? Of course you would, I’d be a very cute boy.”

“Yeah.” He blushed and let go of her hand.

“Wow.” Her eyebrows raised higher and higher. “You’re serious about this.”

“Not serious, no, I guess . . . curious? Forget I said anything.”

“No, no, wait, do you really want to know?”

“Okay, sure. How do I . . . ?”

“Hook up with Ron.”

Heat rose up to Harry’s face as she laughed. “Very funny.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

After a few weeks of spending time with Ginny, Harry decided to tell her about the time loop. “There’s something I want to tell you. Can we talk in private?”

“Er, sure, Harry. Is it serious?”

“Sort of, though I’m not sure how you’ll react.”

This only deepened Ginny’s puzzlement. Whatever possibilities ran through her mind, it wasn’t that Harry was trapped in a day.

“Do I seem different to you?”

She studied him carefully. “You’ve got a bit of stubble. Don’t think I noticed that before.”

He felt his face. “Yeah, I’ve had it for a while now.”

“Are you going through changes?” She nudged him.

“Of a sort.”

“Well?”

“I’ve been living out the same day over and over for nearly five months.”

“Very funny.”

“Honestly, I am!”

“On purpose?”

“No, Merlin, no.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I could list off a number of things I would only know if I had spent too long in one day. Or I could take you to Dumbledore and have him explain it. If you trusted me, though, it’s a lot simpler.” Proving the time loop was easier earlier in the day, before the day’s events had really diverged.

“So what’ve you been doing? Do you normally just run around naked, screaming at people?”

“Why would I—is that what you would do?”

“Maybe. I mean, you can do whatever you want.”

“You and I have snogged a few times.” He looked at her, unsurprised by the flush in her face. “This is the first I’m telling you about the loop, by the way, I never wanted you to think I was putting you on, like because we’d done it before, you’d want to again. I’ve never done anything you didn’t want.”

Ginny stopped walking. “Surely it’s gotten boring. Frustrating, even. Don’t you want things to change? Have you given up just so you can snog me?”

“I’ve run into dead ends, sure. You’ve made it all bearable.”

She touched his face, found the part of his jawline he hadn’t properly shaved. “I’m glad you’re not putting the burden on yourself.”

That night, she didn’t kiss him.

The next day, he decided to just tell her outright how he felt. “Ginny, can we talk?”

“Sure, Harry.”

As they walked to the courtyard, Ginny asked, “Is this about Quidditch?”

“Er, no, actually, I—the thing is, I like you.” He paused next to a column to meet her gaze. “I fancy you, I mean.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you messing with me? I only broke up with Dean a few days ago—”

“No, I’m not.” Harry was unsure of how best to convey his sincerity. “I’ve fancied you for a while now. I couldn’t tell you at first, but since September—”

“That long? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know, there’s Ron, you were in a relationship, I couldn’t figure out how I felt . . .”

Ginny rested her hand on his shoulder. “Harry . . .” she began, tone similar to when Hermione said his name any time he completely missed the point. He couldn’t figure out what her tone meant until she leaned in and kissed him.

Once she pulled away, she studied him. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. More than fine.”

She ran a thumb over his face. “Since when have you had to shave?”

“The past year or so. You’ve never been this close.”

“You’re sure you don’t seem older?”

He supposed he had begun looking a lot more like his father over the past several months. Maybe they wouldn’t have passed as brothers, but certainly cousins.

What if the time loop trapped him for the rest of his life, and as soon as it ended, he died? How should he live, if death would take its time?

Lightning struck down from the swirling clouds as Harry dodged out of the way. Dudley and Draco controlled the sizzling bolts of fury from the ground below. When did Dudley get powers? And why were they all back in Little Whinging?

_This is a dream,_ Harry realized, confidence rushing through him like he’d downed Felix Felicis. He had fallen asleep in the middle of his thoughts. Suddenly, he was riding a broom, swooping around the lightning that kept conveniently missing him.

Harry pointed his wand into the clouds and shouted, _“Rain rain go away!”_ The clouds parted and he touched back down onto the ground without injury.

“Dudley, you’re a Muggle.”

“I’m a what?” he said.

Rather than respond, Harry flicked his wand and Dudley’s trousers fell down, causing his cousin to burst into tears and run away, hands gripping his waistline to hike them up in his haste.

Draco rounded on Harry. “He’s my friend, scarhead!” His form oscillated between a blond member of Dudley’s gang and Draco, so that Harry didn’t know which he was meant to be.

“What’s your name?”

“What’s my name.”

Frustrated, Harry concentrated hard to force him into Draco, until the fogginess cleared up.

“You’re Draco Malfoy.”

Blinking away his confusion, Draco held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Harry heard the whistle of a train in the distance. “Will you come with me?” he asked Draco, who nodded. He ran to Number Four Privet Drive, opened the front door, ran to the cupboard under the stairs, and inside—King’s Cross. Harry searched for a familiar face among the people hurrying every which way, but their faces refused to focus. Suddenly, they were on the Hogwarts Express, which appeared more as a converted corridor of the castle than as a corridor of the train.

“Harry, sit with us!” said Luna, who may have just walked up to him but he couldn’t remember. She led him into a room where a number of students sat on the floor. Harry glanced behind him—where was Draco? His own mind had forgotten, so Draco appeared again, as though nothing had happened.

Most of the Weasleys were present in the room, with the exception of Percy and Charlie. Pansy was there, as were Lucius Malfoy and Hermione—but there were too many to account for all at once, they shifted into his vision a few at a time.

“Let’s talk to your father.” Harry gestured for Draco to follow. “I want to quiz you, yeah?” He had Draco sit next to Lucius, then he looked between them, apprehensive. “How do you feel about Muggleborns?”

“They are lesser than Purebloods,” they said in one voice. “We are superior.”

“Do you use people?”

“Yes, we do.”

Lucius grinned at him, his mouth too large to be real, and Draco’s voice said, “I’d use you, Harry.”

“No, thank you.”

Lucius’ mouth became normal again.

“Harry, you shouldn’t talk to them,” said the Weasley twins, bounding up to meet him. They spoke in unison, too. _Merlin’s sake, why does this dream have to be so creepy?_

“I can take care of myself,” replied Harry, looking back over to Lucius, who now sat alone. “Draco?”

He scanned the room, noticing vaguely that there were fewer people than before. He crossed the room to leave, but when he opened the door, rather than finding the corridor, he had entered a pub. It looked similar to Hog’s Head, though everyone inside wore old-fashioned clothing. It was the early 1800s, Harry decided, although he was aware his rendition of the scene relied heavily on the period dramas his aunt liked to watch.

A woman approached him, carrying a tray of drinks. “What would you like, love?” She was taller than him, beautiful, her long blonde hair framing her pointed features. Apart from her unnatural black eyes, she looked as though she had been carved out of ice.

“Do you have butterbeer?”

She frowned. “I didn’t take you for a child. Perhaps you are younger than you look . . .”

Harry hesitated, his perspective shifting outside of his body. _More facial hair would help, maybe grow taller, you’re not wearing glasses, are you?_ And then he was back in himself. “A pint, then.” Time sped up, and they talked, she was laughing, he tried to imagine the effects of the alcohol—and they were in a room upstairs.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she was saying, and suddenly Harry understood. This was _Year at the Swansea Inn_ , which meant . . . 

As he took off his dress, he stared at Harry with pale grey eyes.

_Get out. This is not happening._ He blinked and found himself somewhere else. A fortune-teller’s room, as he had imagined it in _On His Wings; it contained_ plush purple furniture adorned with gold trim, in addition to random objects plucked from Trelawney’s classroom. And no sign of Draco.

“Are you my two o’clock?” a woman asked in a heavy Southern drawl, emerging through a beaded curtain. She had rings on every finger and her fingernails were painted like the insides of seashells.

“Yes. Er, Harry Potter.”

“That’s right. And you’re aware you’re dreaming?”

“Yes, I figured that out.”

“Well have a seat, then. You’re in charge, so whatever I tell you is directly from your unconscious. Consider me a medium of the mind. Shall I do a love reading for you, hun? Would that suit you?”

“Sure.” Harry sat down across from her at the small table.

“Let me see your dominant hand.”

Harry offered his right hand to her.

She held it in front of her, palm up. “Mhm . . . this is not so unusual for someone so important in the fates of thousands of people. We are all connected by invisible strings, but your life line is deep, crossed by many threads, so there can be no doubt you will be of great significance to the world . . .” She drew her wand and touched the tip to his palm. “But you care about love, don’t you? _Mirror mirror, who is the fairest?_ ”

Two translucent figures burst up out of his hand and floated down to stand on the table. Ginny and Draco stared up at him, both no taller than his forearm.

“Your love line is forked like your life line, Harry.”

“I’m sure they aren’t in reality,” he said, unsure who to make eye contact with. When he looked down at his hand, it was completely smooth, devoid of lines. “Tell me who to choose.”

But she said nothing, and he knew he would have to make her say something if he wanted to move the dream along.

“Ginny,” the woman said, and the real Draco appeared from behind the curtain, sneering.

Harry sat up in bed. He would have thought he was no longer sleeping, except he briefly saw himself from outside his body. Next to Ginny.

_The palm reader was right,_ he thought, and he got out of bed to pee. _Ah, so I probably have to go in real life._ Once he’d finished, he heard a baby’s cry in the other room. He knew where the room was somehow, and what to do with the crying baby. But suddenly it was the next day, and Ginny was holding their child in her arms. Harry paused to kiss her on the top of her head as he cleared away the dishes.

“She’s coming home in three days, Harry.”

“Who is?”

“Are you really insisting on keeping up this charade?”

“What do you mean, Ginny?”

“We’ve gone through so much together, and I’ve raised her child—you can at least call me Draco.”

Harry flashed back to the previous night within his dream, the intimacies he had glossed over, horror gripping him not because of the revelation that he had taken Draco as though he were his wife, but because he didn’t want Ginny to come home.

Harry woke up. He knew at once he was no longer dreaming, and tried to remember all that had occurred in his mind. He was in Little Whinging, then the Hogwarts Express, and the unicorn books . . .

_I chose Ginny._ The latter part of his dream came rushing back, and he groaned, pushing aside his covers so he could pace. _No, you only_ wanted _to choose Ginny. What does it matter? Wanting to choose Ginny is what counts._

_Fancy Ginny. She fancies you back._

_He doesn’t._

He began his third week by kissing Ginny before dinner on a bench outside the Great Hall. They left the common room for dinner too early, and killed time by talking . . . and snogging. When they broke apart, smiling as they usually did after, Harry spotted, with a jolt of horror, Draco staring at them from further down the corridor.

“What . . . ?” Ginny turned. Her hands tightened on Harry’s arms.

“So, Potter’s snogging a Weasley.” Draco shook his head, clucking his tongue. “Filth with filth—you deserve each other. I wish I could say I’m surprised, but Potter was always fond of charity cases.”

“Piss off, Malfoy,” said Ginny. “You’re just bitter you’re not getting any. It’s making you whine like a baby Crup.”

Malfoy’s face went pink. “Watch your mouth, blood traitor.” His hand floated vaguely toward his wand.

Harry thought of the memory he had seen in his fifth year. Ginny, face as red as her hair, looked suddenly like his mother, telling off James by the lake. Or was it more like she was telling off Snape?

Draco glanced around. There were students approaching for dinner. Not an opportune time for a fight.

“Why do you even care, Malfoy?” Harry pulled Draco’s attention back. “My love life is the least of your concern at the moment.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting, Potter?”

“Unless you’re jealous, that is.”

He laughed sharply. “Why the bloody hell would I be jealous of you? Are you that bigheaded that you think everyone has to be infatuated with Weasley, who is, by the way, too unappealing for words?”

Ginny made an indignant sound and was about to defend herself when Harry replied hotly, “You’re jealous of her, then.”

Draco no longer cared about the people around who had stopped to stare, and pulled out his wand, but Harry disarmed him before he could manage a curse.

“It’s two against one, Draco. You must know how talented Ginny is with hexes, and it only makes me think I’m right when you rush into a fight without thinking.”

“Harry, you can’t be serious!” hissed Ginny, wand out but not raised. She told Draco, “Leave us be, yeah? And don’t be a prick, or I’ll have no choice but to hex you.”

Harry tossed him his wand. They glared at each other until Draco swept around and left in a billow of black, green, and blond.

“You don’t actually think he’s jealous, do you?” asked Ginny, watching as Draco’s furious frame rounded the corner.

“I wanted to get a rise out of him, is all.” Harry’s heart still raced from adrenaline.

“You succeeded.”

At dinner, Draco sat close to Pansy as she fed him tiny forkfuls of food. He glanced every now and then at Harry and Ginny, looking pleased with himself.

Ginny nudged Harry under the table, so Ron and Hermione wouldn’t see. “He’s ridiculous! He’s entirely convinced you care about his love life, if you can even call it that.” 

“I know. And it’s so obvious he doesn’t fancy Pansy.”

“He’s using her, don’t you think? She seems not to mind, but she must know.”

Harry waited for a crack in Draco’s facade. There was something addictive about uncovering the truth, and Draco was shrouded in lies.

He tore his gaze away to look at Ginny. She made sense. She reflected the kind of person he wanted to be, she was _right_. When the time loop ended, if it ended, they would be the couple that everyone envied, and he would feel normal, fulfilled. They would be like how he imagined his parents—the boy with wild hair, loyal to his friends, excellent at Quidditch, with the red-headed girl who stood up for and appreciated the people others overlooked, whose magical talents earned her a spot in the Slug Club and marked her in the Death Eaters’ eyes. The parallel wasn’t perfect, but it dug its way deeper into his thoughts, until he wished Ginny wouldn’t look at him so fondly, because she felt with a clarity he didn’t share. Maybe this was supposed to start something that lasted their entire lives. Why did he so desperately want to recreate the love of his parents?

He left dinner in a cloud and that night lay in bed, mind furiously spinning.

_I haven’t been honest with myself. It’s getting harder to ignore how I’ve gotten here._ Harry could reinvent himself every day, decide the day’s experiment, but he was ultimately alone, making it difficult to lie to himself. So had the past weeks with Ginny been about who he wanted, or about what he needed to cope?

Ginny was like his mother. This person, on the other hand, was someone he had never dreamt of ever caring for. You can hate someone, you can fancy someone, and you can hate that you fancy someone. Harry found himself feeling all three, he just didn’t want to admit it to himself, not before he knew what it meant, not when he could take the easy route for once in his life.

He still fancied Ginny, to some extent. Those feelings wouldn’t go away simply because he thought he understood why he had them.

Though, only one person had turned his world upside down, given him a reason to stay sane in the loop, jumpstarted his heart, driven him to the edge; there was one person who didn’t make him comfortable, instead sparking in him every emotion he could feel to the nth degree.

_I fancy Draco Malfoy_.

_Well, shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter illustration image description: A black-and-white collage of about nine models and actors of different genders and races. The people pictured are all beautiful, some with only a section of their face visible (Robert Pattinson is the only Harry Potter actor included). In the center of the collage is a bare-chested man who is ethnically ambiguous, quite possibly mixed race—he may represent Harry. To this man’s upper left is a model who looks like a version of Ginny, to his lower right is a model who looks like a version of Draco. Three streaks of red weave between some of the people, overlaid with text. From the top, the first streak says “chapped lips / thin fingers,” the second says “freckles / red hair / hazel eyes,” the third says “constantly shifting between ferocity and beauty” and intersects with the back of Draco’s neck.]


	11. Two Disguises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is a Gryffindor-Slytherin combination, imo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter illustration image description at the end of the chapter.

 

The next day, Ginny met Harry at the greenhouses following his routine of talking to her and showing more affection than usual.

He kissed her, wishing desperately for it to change his mind, for things to go back to the way they were. But the contact felt empty, wrong. His inability to connect with her desire brought him back to his second year at Hogwarts, to the little redhead who had obsessed over him. He struggled to separate her from the picture of his mother, to ignore his admiration of her boyishness and her similarity to Ron.

They broke apart, and Ginny was grinning, almost giggling. He composed his expression before she caught his eye, redirecting her attention by brushing a lock of hair behind her ear and matching her smile. She was so soft—lips, cheeks, hair, gaze—and letting the ease of their connection go was difficult.

He touched her face, imagining that the flames of desire that once filled his stomach were reduced to embers, a nostalgic fondness that would be satisfied if they remained friends.

Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention; when he looked over, Luna had discovered them.

“Luna! Er, hi.”

“Hello.” She gave a small smile, which left her face just before she left the room.

Harry wished he could tell her that she had nothing to worry about, he actually fancied someone else. Whatever her reaction meant, those feelings would reset the next day.

To clear his head, Harry spent the next few weeks focusing on his friendships and learning magic he had yet to try in class. He spent time with Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, and Molly Weasley, and visited the twins in their shop again.

He went through the same pleasantries with Fred and George’s assistant as he had when he asked them for love potion months before. So much had changed; it was odd seeing them in the same bright moods and crimson robes, a reminder that he was the only one with true free will in this world.

Upstairs, he spotted the collection of notebooks that appeared to be dedicated to all of their ideas, prototypes, and research. “Can I look through these?”

“Go ahead! Ignore Fred’s unsavory comments.”

“My comments are unsavory, are they? You’re the one who proposed the 17-and-over section—”

“You’re making it sound worse than it was, I said we could do mail-order only—”

“Anyhow, your, erm, mature product sketches are in a separate notebook, right?”

“Don’t worry, you won’t see anything inappropriate. Probably.” George gave the notebook a final suspicious glance before sitting down at a nearby desk.

Initially, Harry turned the pages with care, bracing himself for what he may find, picking up the pace once he saw it wasn’t nearly as explicit as the twins had suggested. 

About a third of the way through the book, a sketch of a tiny flask labeled as heart-revealing potion promised to tell the user who they most desired by changing their eye color. A scribbled comment by the illustration read, “If possible, match/reciprocated results in matching eyes?”

“What does this mean?” asked Harry, pointing at the note. George set down his quill and went over to see what he was talking about.

“Ah, it makes more sense in my head I suppose—dunno how it’s magically possible, but if the person you fancy fancies you back, then their eyes would change as well. Unfortunately, Ginny says she’ll hex me if I make another love product designed for girls so we’re tabling it for now.”

Harry chuckled. “Ever tried marketing the love products to boys?”

“I think you’re either saying you want this potion or want to help us in our shop.” At Harry’s noncommittal shrug, he said, “If you really want it, we’ll make it, but only if you tell us who you fancy. Because if it’s someone we know quite well,” he said with a wink, “you won’t need the potion.”

“It’s not for Ginny, if that’s who you mean.”

“You’re the one who brought her up. So you don’t know if this girl is into you? Trust me, you should just ask her.”

“It’s a lot more complicated than that. But . . . I’ll do my best.”

On what he thought was the start of his sixth month in the loop, Harry spent the day writing out his own product ideas. Ron and Ginny got involved, offering feedback and catchy names. Harry imagined a future in which Fred and George periodically invited them to brainstorm new products, and they would talk late into the night.

What would Draco think about it all? Whenever Harry caught him staring at he and his friends enjoying themselves at dinner, the bitterness in his expression was obvious.

Why couldn’t he have fancied George? He had a sly edge to him, a way he waited to speak when Fred charged ahead that made Harry wonder if there was something more to the difference between them.

Although it hardly consoled him about his choice, there was at least a chance Draco fancied him in return. It occurred to Harry that he knew someone with inside information on Draco and his past. If he wanted to know what Draco felt, he had nothing to lose by asking.

“Dobby, when you served the Malfoys, was there anything to suggest that Draco . . . fancied me?”

“Fancied you, sir? In what way?”

Harry scratched his head and laughed. “It’s stupid.”

“But . . . Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy hate each other.”

“I know I’ve had you follow him. You don’t have to anymore, I know what he’s up to now. Er, you helped! Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Harry Potter . . . how would Dobby know if the Malfoy boy likes you?”

“Did he ever talk about me? Or write in a diary of some sort about me? Anything that might have meant . . .”

“Dobby knows something! When Dobby tried to stop you from coming to Hogwarts, it was because the boy talked about you so much that Dobby knew to stop your letters and to interfere in Quidditch.”

“But Draco didn’t know about that.”

“No, Harry Potter, young Malfoy didn’t.” Dobby’s huge eyes looked up at him. “When he was a child, he wanted to be your friend.”

Harry swallowed, thinking back to the artificial memory Draco had given him in which they had reconciled. “Is that right?”

“Harry Potter killed—almost killed You-Know-Who, and his family was free. You were a mystery, Harry Potter. Before Hogwarts, young Malfoy read about you. He hoped you would be sorted into Slytherin like he knew he would be.”

“And I chose Gryffindor. I chose not to be friends with him because he was an awful person. A prick.” Dobby’s eyes widened at Harry’s language. “I don’t regret it.”

“No, Harry Potter, of course.”

“But wanting to be friends . . . that hardly means anything more.”

Dobby began to squirm, wrestling with an invisible force.

“What is it? Look, it’s harmless, whatever you have to say.”

“The Malfoy boy hurt Dobby when he last said something about it.”

Harry felt sick imagining how Draco had abused Dobby, and that it only would have gotten worse if Dobby had remained their house-elf. “Something about what?”

Dobby covered his face with his hands and let out a whine. “When he was twelve, Malfoy told Dobby how good you were at Quidditch, among other things . . . And Dobby couldn’t tell—couldn’t tell if he hated you or liked you. Dobby didn’t mean to offend, he didn’t, but the Malfoy boy got angry . . .”

“How did he hurt you?”

“He told his father Dobby had offended him.”

“I’m sorry you went through that.”

“It could have been much worse, oh yes! And for years, the youngest Malfoy did not hurt him at all.”

“Still, it wasn’t right.”

With another piece of evidence that Draco had harbored these feelings for a while, Harry had to know, once and for all, if they were genuine. In the wake of his experience toying with ideas for Wizard Wheezes, his mind spun with possible schemes that would, in essence, reveal Draco’s heart.

The first of his plans involved Amortentia, but he stuck to his vow following his first use and would not have Draco drink it. To start, he paid close attention to Professor Slughorn for a week, internalizing his way of speaking and his mannerisms well enough so that he could make it through the day without Draco investigating his suspicious behavior. He mapped Slughorn’s movements and found that after classes ended, the professor retreated to his living quarters and remained there in the two hours leading up to dinner.

Early in the morning, Harry stole Snape’s vial of Polyjuice Potion, and at lunch, he summoned a strand of Slughorn’s hair. That afternoon, as Slughorn, he sent a first year to fetch Draco, then waited in the Potions classroom.

“You called, sir? What is this about?” Draco looked vaguely annoyed, but too tired to maintain a convincing expression of distaste.

“I wished to give you another chance to win the Felix Felicis. To help give Slytherin a fighting chance in the House Cup.”

Draco’s eyes glinted. “You have another vial?”

“Yes.”

“What have I got to do to win it?” The determination in Draco’s expression faded somewhat.

“I want you to brew Amortentia. The potion is extremely difficult, so I by no means expect perfection.”

Draco struggled to hold back a grin. “I accept the terms, sir.”

“Excellent. Help yourself to the necessary supplies, I will wait here.” As Draco began the process, Harry glanced at the map. Slughorn was still in his quarters, a safe distance away, should he start to come down to the dungeons. He avoided looking at Draco, feeling that in Slughorn’s body, staring at him was highly inappropriate, even if Draco failed to notice.

“Sir?”

Harry started, hastily folding up the map. “Er, yes, Draco?”

“How well must the potion be made in order for me to receive the Felix Felicis?”

“If I am able to identify my favorite scents in the potion, it passes the test.”

“Okay.” Draco rolled up his sleeves and smoothed back his hair. The movement, along with the focused gaze and slight tilted curve of his neck as he regarded the potions, sent shivers through Harry. He looked back down at the papers on Slughorn’s desk, pretending to read, glancing up every now and then under the pretense of watching Draco’s progress.

“I’ve finished.” He wiped his forehead with his the back of his hand, shielding his nervous features.

“Thank you, Draco. If I may ask—what does the Amortentia smell like to you?”

“Sir? I thought that—”

“I only mean to ask to see if it is truly accurate. A poorly made Amortentia will not smell appealing.”

“Yes, but . . .” Draco composed himself and inhaled. “Fine. It smells like broomstick polish, rain, or smoke, perhaps, and—hair, I assume. Someone’s hair, I don’t know whose.”

“In order to master the potion, you should be able to pick out specific scents. Why, when I was a boy, I wasn’t at first sure of the smell, but I smelled—er, strawberries, and a girl in my class had the same aroma. Now the scent is different, but anyhow—it was a matter of thinking about it more carefully.”

Draco’s desire to argue was betrayed by a twinge in his chin. Reluctantly, he closed his eyes. “There’s no fruit smell. Herbs, chemicals, I’m not sure, but I can tell that it’s hair.” He leaned unconsciously closer to the cauldron, caught himself, and opened his eyes.

“Yes, very well done. I too was able to detect my favorite scents. Here’s the Felix. My last bottle, mind you.” It was fake, but Draco was unlikely to find that out.

Draco’s scrunched forehead finally relaxed. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, and before you go, it may interest you to find the source of that scent!”

Making a sort of grimace, Draco hurried out of the room, tucking the Felix into his robes.

Harry looked down into the potion and breathed in. Its scent was the same as he had first experienced, with one important difference: a trace of hair gel, the kind Draco used. He’d smelled it on his pillows.

Later, back in his own body, Harry confronted Draco for the final phase of his scheme. “Malfoy.”

Draco glanced at Crabbe and Goyle and drew himself up. “Potter.” There was a fresh spark of confidence in his eyes.

“Smell my hair.”

“What?”

Before Draco could reach for his wand, Harry shoved his head into his face. When he withdrew, Draco had recoiled, face as pale as his white-blond hair. The look was all Harry needed to see to confirm his hopes.

“You were watching . . . ? In Slughorn’s office?” Draco quickly raised his wand. “How did you—the potion—I smelled—”

“I didn’t do anything. You made it yourself.” Harry stifled a laugh, knowing Draco would misinterpret it. 

“When I find out what you did, I’ll tell Snape—I’ll prove you’ve been following me.”

“Go ahead. I don’t care.”

Ron and Hermione had come up behind Harry. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, let’s go,” said Harry, with a small wave to Draco.

So he finally had definitive proof. Whether or not he was aware of his feelings, Draco had to fancy him. There’d be time for more questions—how could he have been so cruel? How long had he felt this way? Was he bi or gay? For now, Harry had hope.

Another idea he had also required Polyjuice Potion, but was even more convoluted. The odds that it would lead to anything useful were slim.

Under the influence of truth serum, Draco’s answers were somewhat unreliable. Harry wanted to do things better, find the sliver of a chance that they could resolve their past without resorting to aggression or mind-altering magic. If Harry knew better how to have a civil conversation with him, Draco could ultimately help himself.

Crabbe and Goyle, when disguised as young girls, were a possible way to get through to Draco. All Harry had to do was Body-Bind one of them, drink a serving of Polyjuice, and return in disguise to plant an idea in Draco’s head when he checked in.

“How much Polyjuice have you got left?” he asked that morning, prompting Draco to shush him.

“Lower your voice, for Merlin’s sake! Enough for another week, why?”

“I saw Potter and the Weasley girl snogging yesterday.”

“And? Why should I care?”

“I bet he’s been telling her what’s he’s up to.”

Draco stared at him. “Are you Crabbe or Goyle?”

“Goyle,” said Harry, relieved he had checked the Marauder’s Map before to figure out who was who.

“Goyle, I assumed you’d spent all this time staring at the wall, but you’ve actually been using your brain!” Draco waited for a few students to pass before leaning in and saying, “I’ll use the room, see if he’ll talk to her.”

“But what if he sees you?” asked Crabbe, stupidity obvious even in his younger disguise.

“No, you moron, I’m going to use Polyjuice Potion and—never mind, why bother explaining it? When the potion wears off, meet me in the Slytherin common room.”

“I heard she’s going to be practicing Quidditch all evening!” Harry added as Draco walked away, getting a slight nod in return.

Once he erased Goyle’s memory and set him loose, Harry found Ginny and Ron to give them a watered-down version of his plan. Ginny was skeptical at first but once he explained the loop to her, she agreed. They made sure she would cross paths with Draco just as she was talking loudly to Ron about planning to practice Quidditch for a couple hours.

Once he had presumably transformed, Malfoy loitered in a different empty classroom by Gryffindor Tower, true identity revealed only by the Marauder’s Map.

_That’s my cue._ Harry leapt out of bed, retrieved some of Ron’s breath mints from his Lavender days, freshened up in the bathroom, then finally ended up in the corridor leading to the tower. He caught a glimpse of a short girl with long red hair. What suggested something was amiss was that she walked more stiffly than normal.

“Hey, Ginny, wait up!”

She started, then managed a forced smile.

Harry ran up to her, easily able to feign enthusiasm because he was highly curious about how Draco could pull this off. “What’s wrong?” No use in pretending that she was acting normally, or that may raise Draco’s suspicions.

“I’m a bit tired, is all.”

“Do you want to go back to the dorm?”

“Actually, I thought we could go somewhere more private.”

Harry faltered despite himself. “Yeah. Th-that’d be—sure.” He caught Draco’s sneering judgement beneath his innocuous facade. “Where do you suggest we go?”

“The room on the seventh floor.” She started to lead the way with a rigidity that was comically opposed to Ginny’s typical relaxed gait.

What would the room become? They had different agendas, could it become a combination of them? A common room, perhaps, with a fireplace and a couch to sit on and chat. Draco may just need the room to appear as Harry expected it to. When they reached the seventh floor, the door materialized right away. Inside was a small room with muted red and black wallpaper and a lush gold couch positioned in front of a crackling fire.

_Does Draco have any idea what he’ll have to do to keep up the act? Would he kiss me to prevent my being suspicious?_

“This is nice,” said Draco/Ginny, once Harry had closed the door.

“Yeah, it is. We ought to come here more often.”

Ginny smiled, until Harry came closer, taking her hands in his. “Are you sure you’re all right? Let’s just relax, yeah?”

Draco nodded, remaining still as Harry touched his face and ran a hand over his hair. For it to be right, he wouldn’t go any further unless Draco initiated it. There was no way to tell how he felt in this moment. What lengths was he willing to go to get what he wanted?

“What about you, Po—Harry? How are you doing?”

“Ah, you know, it can be stressful trying to figure out how to defeat Voldemort and manage school.”

“Are you any closer to defeating him?” he asked as they sat down.

“We’re getting closer. Dumbledore’s not telling me everything, but . . . did you know his passwords are usually candy-related? It’s funny, especially because our visits are quite dark.”

“What’s his password now?”

“Shock-o-Choc.”

Draco chuckled out of repressed excitement. “Rather silly . . .”

“That’s Dumbledore, though.” Harry feigned falling deep in thought. “He doesn’t seem to care if he dies. Even though he knows Malfoy’s trying to kill him . . .” On cue, Ginny’s face went bright red. “He’s just accepted it.”

“Remind me . . . how he found out?” Her voice was strangled, deathly quiet.

“It was fairly obvious. Snape’s helping Malfoy, though, so he must have some reason for telling Dumbledore.”

Harry’s pity mingled with anger as he watched Draco try to manage his panic. “Hey.” He touched his cheek, more brusquely than before. “I promise you, Voldemort will die before Dumbledore does. We’ll get through this. And no one else will have to die, not even Malfoy.”

“Saying that won’t make it true.”

“It’s a start.”

“People are going to die regardless of what you do!” Her voice cracked. “Ah, sorry.” Ginny’s hands trembled, and when she noticed Harry staring at them, she leaned in and kissed him.

Harry pulled away, unwilling to have Draco force himself to do this just for information. It was a lame distraction from the signs of Draco’s panic. Or maybe it wasn’t to trick him—the hands that gripped his upper back no longer trembled, and Ginny’s expression simmered with frustration. Draco had seemed so indifferent with Pansy, but now, as he took off Harry’s glasses and kissed him again, there was an intense abandon that could have been the result of a love potion.

_Could it be Amortentia? Did Draco drink a little to make it easier?_ wondered Harry as Draco’s hand slid up his neck to grip his hair. He was starting to lose track of his thoughts, focusing on the unfamiliar sound Draco made as Ginny when he pushed her closer by the small of her back. Then Harry tasted salt. Under Amortentia’s influence, Draco wouldn’t be in a state of mind to feel genuine sadness. “Why are you crying?” He held her face, wiping the tears away with his thumbs.

Ginny just shook her head and hugged him, burying her face in his chest, breath heaving. “Shh . . . it’s okay.” Harry held him tightly in return, stroking Ginny’s back. Was it seeing Ginny like this or knowing it was Draco that made his heart ache? He knew it was more painful knowing Draco was not trying to appeal to him, not seeking sympathy, just seeking long overdue comfort.

Did Draco intend on erasing his memories after this? Now there was no way he could get away without being suspected, since Harry would have to bring up this incident with the real Ginny. Maybe he could get out of it by telling Draco about the time loop.

They sat like this for twenty minutes, until Draco’s breath no longer shuddered. Sensing he may be able to act kindly enough that Draco would confess his identity and they could speak frankly, Harry did his best to be comforting but not too forward. He kept one hand on Ginny’s waist and lightly ran his fingers up and down her back with the other.

“What can I say to reassure you?”

“Tell me . . . tell me my parents will make it out alive.”

“Your parents make it out alive. They will. You don’t have to worry about that. You’ll be a family again.”

“Again?”

_Oops._ “Again . . . because it’s been hard, with Percy and all.”

“Right.”

“Ginny . . . you know I’m here for you. You’ve been there for me, especially when I told you I’m attracted to blokes as well as girls.”

Draco stopped breathing. Gasping a bit, he spluttered, “What?” They unwound themselves from each other, and Draco stared at Harry a bit too long. “Right. Er, th-that was nothing.”

“You don’t need to be modest. It means a lot to me.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you tell me? I mean, you’re with me, so what does it matter?”

“It matters because I wouldn’t want to keep things from you. And I trust you. It’s a part of me that no one else knows about. Of course I’ll tell Ron and Hermione when I’m ready, too.”

“So you tell me things you don’t even tell Weas—Ron and Hermione?”

After pretending to be Pansy for information under the impression that Draco confided his secrets in her, Harry could guess where this was going. “Yes.” He reclined on the couch and gestured for Draco to lay back as well.

But the red-haired, freckle-faced Draco just looked at him, pink creeping up his neck.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Draco sank back to rest his head on Harry’s chest, freezing up when Harry wrapped his arms around him.

“You know you can talk to me about anything.”

“Mhm.” They held each other’s gaze for long enough that Harry forgot he was supposed to be looking at Ginny.

“When you told me you fancied the same sex, I was surprised. Because there was nothing to suggest . . . I mean, of everyone, you’d think—maybe you’d think Draco Malfoy had those feelings, or someone else, right?”

Harry chewed his lip. “To be honest, I don’t know how I could guess. I’d definitely be surprised. It’s okay if Draco was bi or gay, though, you know, except I’d be worried for him.”

“Why?” Draco’s voice, though quiet, had a hard edge to it.

“I wouldn’t imagine he’s told anyone. Can you picture him telling Crabbe and Goyle? ‘Hey, I know you’ve barely got a grasp on girls, let alone yourselves, but I thought you should know I’m into blokes.’ They’d lose their minds, if they had them to begin with.”

Ginny chuckled, sounding more cynical than he could have expected from her. “No, they would handle it rather poorly.” Harry finally felt him relax. “So, exactly how do you intend to defeat the Dark Lord? Er, You-Know-Who?”

“Dumbledore has only told me bits and pieces. Voldemort split his soul into fragments, and put these fragments into different objects. So we’re trying to find and destroy every object. Once we do, he’ll be defeated for good.”

“By your tone, it sounds like you’re close.”

“Yes, there only a few more left. Which is why everything will be alright.”

Draco buried his face in Harry’s chest. “Okay,” he said softly. Rather than speak, they lay in silence, with Harry running his fingers through Ginny’s hair, thinking. Since they were both conscious of who the other was, he felt closer to Draco than he had ever felt before. And yet, he was painfully aware of how fragile the closeness was.

A lock of blond hair shimmered under his hand. “Ginny, I’ve got to stretch, can you hand me my glasses?” If Draco needed an out to drink more Polyjuice Potion, this would be it. Harry stood and raised his arms over his head as he walked to the fireplace, where the fire had begun to die down. As he cracked his knuckles, he studied the wallpaper, which he had originally thought was in Victorian style or something similar. Up close, the curves of each motif were actually intertwined snakes, framing deep scarlet flowers. Harry made a show of rolling his shoulders for good measure as he considered what they could mean.

There was no sound behind him, meaning Draco might have yet to realize he was turning back. Harry pretended to take interest in the objects on the mantle to kill more time. From left to right, there was a small sculpture of a man, nude and well-proportioned. It was similar to the casts of ancient sculptures Harry vaguely recalled from the two times he attended a school trip to a nearby art museum. Was the statuette always here for this room, or had he mentally summoned it? Next to it there was a large egg, intricately painted with a scene from the Amazon, full of creatures he knew he should be able to name (he could only remember the Dugbog and Caipora). In the center of the mantle was a silver platter, and in its reflection he saw Draco standing, raising his wand to—

Harry spun around in time to yell _“Protego!”_ as Draco yelled _“Obliviate!”_

_“Petrificus Totalus!”_

Draco, still half-Ginny, fell back against the couch, face locked in an open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression.

Harry swore once, then again as he heaved Draco into a lying position the couch. “Alright. Can we start over? I’m not going to crush your nose, if that crossed your mind. Give me a moment to think.” Draco had to believe Harry had no ill-intent. Or that he could somehow one-up Harry to get what he wanted. “Okay, I have an idea. If you agree to answer one of my questions—no, two questions—you can ask me fifteen things and I have to answer each honestly. Also—before I unfreeze you, I’ll hide your wand somewhere and will only tell you where it is if you promise not to attack me until after classes begin tomorrow. I’d prefer it if you didn’t at all, of course.

“There’s another thing . . . time is repeating for me. Tomorrow morning it’ll be as though none of this ever happened.” He left under the cloak to hide Draco’s wand in a crevice he created by the Slytherin dorms, hoping that would incentivize him to remain there rather than go to Gryffindor Tower for revenge.

At last, he released the Body-Bind Curse.

Draco sat up with a groan. “What is the point of this?” His pale face was tinged with green. “Congratulations, you tricked me. You won, Potter, are you happy? The least you can do is erase both of our memories so we can pretend this never happened.”

“You won’t remember tomorrow, anyhow.”

He scoffed, though he looked like he could cry. “Clearly, you have more to gain if your two questions are at least worth fifteen of mine. And if you’re right about this time thing—” 

“Are you going to agree, or not?”

“You haven’t given me much choice.” His eyes searched for somewhere to look other than at Harry and he crossed his arms. “So how’s this going to work? You answer seven questions, then ask your first question, I ask eight more, and at the end, you ask your second question.”

“Seems fair enough.”

“One: why are you so sure that time is repeating?”

“I have been living the same day over and over again for six months. I don’t know why or how. It’s a powerful curse; nothing I’ve done has made any difference.”

“Two: and that is how you know about what I have been tasked to do?”

“Yes, that’s how I know you have to kill Dumbledore.”

“Three: and were you saying you know how to kill the Dark Lord to see how I reacted, or is that true?”

“It’s true. He’s not as invincible as he’d like people to believe.”

“Four: do you genuinely want to help me?”

“Yes. Assuming you’re willing to help a bit in return.”

“Five: are you really what you said you are, or was that another test?”

Harry’s heart thudded. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Are you bloody bisexual, for Merlin’s sake! Making me ask that outright . . .”

“I . . . that was the first time I’d said it, actually. I’ve never told Ginny, or anyone. And I was testing you, but it was . . . true.”

“I shouldn’t be wasting these questions on this . . .” he said, head in his hands.

“Why did you want to know?”

“You’re not supposed to ask a question yet.”

“Sorry.”

“Six: what’s the password to Gryffindor tower?”

“Eureka.”

Draco smirked and sat back on the couch.

“I really hope you’re not thinking of barging in and erasing my memory.”

Draco mock-pouted. “You should have thought about that before telling me there are no consequences for my actions.”

“That’s not what I said. If you erase today, or more, I won’t think there’s any way to rationally help you, and revert to my less pleasant strategy . . .” He chewed his lip. “This is the first time we have sat down and talked. You would think, in six months . . .”

“Seven: what is the worst thing you have done to me, Potter?”

“Used Veritaserum on you to find out about your plans. But I guess it depends on what you value most. Your privacy? Your autonomy?”

“I value being left alone when I never asked for help.”

“You asked Myrtle for help.”

“Is that what all of this is about? Did you see me talking to her?”

“I’ll count that as two questions. Before, though, I get to ask you a question.”

“Fine.”

“Who have you used the Imperius Curse on?”

There was a labored pause as Draco came to terms with what he had to share. “Madam Rosmerta. She helped me smuggle in the mead and the necklace. I never meant for Katie or Weasley to—it wasn’t about them.”

“Not that you asked, but that’s only one of the worst things you’ve done to me. Nearly killed my best friend while I watched.”

Draco put his face in his hands. “How could you want to help me?”

“I would be lying if I said all of this was solely to help you. In the end, having you change sides will help us defeat Voldemort—”

“And why do you call him that?”

“My fear will always lead to resistance. That’s the difference between us: you will fake respect, loyalty, call him whatever name you need to in order to survive.

“Of course what you choose to do is right, and everyone else is wrong. You didn’t grow up among us, you don’t know what it’s like to have him hanging over your head . . .”

“There’s a real difference in calling him your lord and calling him You-Know-Who.”

Draco’s eyebrow twitched. “Six months in the same day and I thought you would understand me by now.”

“Oh, I can understand, that doesn’t mean I have to agree.”

“Fair enough.” The heat of the argument had reenergized Draco, set his knee bouncing, his eyes fixed on Harry. “I believe you have two questions to answer, now. Eight and nine.”

“Right, about Myrtle, and how the time loop started? Six months ago, I walked in on you in the girls’ bathroom; you were crying, asking her what to do. When you saw me, you freaked and tried to curse me, and I tried this spell that I shouldn’t have. I nearly killed you. When I woke up the next day, it had never happened. On other days, you said you wished someone could help, and it was clear you didn’t want to have to kill Dumbledore. You may hate him, you may have taken the mark, but if you had a way out . . .”

“You’re so sure about this plan of yours, so ten: how would you fail? And eleven: how likely is it that you would fail?”

“We would fail if too many people join Voldemort’s ranks, or if he finds out about our plan. Even then, at some point, I’d hope the international community would step in, and enough people would know what to do that his days would be numbered. As far as how likely it is that we would fail, I dunno, I have a pretty good track record so far. Do you want me put a number on it?”

“You’ve merely been lucky.” Draco pressed his hands together.

“You’ve got four questions left, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. Twelve: why doesn’t Dumbledore care that I’ve been trying to kill him?”

“He cares, he just doesn’t think you’re up to the task. He sees that you’re desperate. You’re not a murderer.”

While this may not have satisfied Draco, he had nothing more to say, until: “Who do you fancy? Thirteen.”

Harry’s head spun. The question was inevitable, and still he would rather not say it out loud. “Clearly, it’s you.”

“Since when?” Draco’s voice dropped so low Harry could barely hear him.

“Not for very long, really. One more question, make it count.”

“Do you know if I fancy anyone?”

“I used to think you fancied Pansy. And then . . . well, maybe I should have known earlier, but I found out your Amortentia smelled like me. What I don’t know is whether you know you fancy me, or why, or when it all started, or how you could treat me like shit, quite frankly, even though you like me that way.”

Draco swallowed, hard. “Okay. You owe me an extra question.”

“Within reason.”

He rubbed his neck. “Would you only have snogged me if I was in Ginny’s body?”

“Do you want to find out?”

The color in his face flared up again. “Answer the question.”

“I would rather you were in your own body.” 

Draco stood up abruptly, hitting his shin on the table between them. He cursed, eyes scrunched shut as Harry hurried over to him.

“Are you okay?”

“Just grand,” he replied through gritted teeth, collapsing back onto the sofa. He pulled up his pant leg to see the angry mark on his skin.

“Do you want me to kiss it better?” asked Harry, holding back a grin.

“I can’t believe you, Potter. The time loop has screwed with your head.”

“Maybe it has.”

Draco’s eyes were on Harry’s wand, which sat on the chair well out of arm’s reach.

Harry sighed. “I know you could summon it, if you wanted.”

“Just ask your question,” said Draco, rolling his pant leg down as Harry sat next to him.

“At the start, I planned to ask you if you fancied me. Or why you kissed me when you really didn’t have to. But now, I want to know: what can I do in future loops for you to trust me? For you to believe that I want to help you.”

Draco shifted to put more distance between the two of them. “Knowing you have feelings for me could help. Telling me is going to be . . . a risk. I would first think you’re manipulating me. You have to erase any doubt that your plan is the best way forward, and then I will do what is best. That’s all I can guarantee.”

“Right. There’s still the chance you would go straight to Voldemort with everything I tell you.”

“There is that chance, I suppose.”

Harry’s grimace met Draco’s solemn expression, and said, “There’s no point trying anything until tomorrow, if there is the same tomorrow; otherwise, you’ll be putting yourself in harm’s way for nothing.”

“It must be nice—making mistakes and not having to live with them.”

“I’m trying to make the most of it. Or else I would never have risked something like this. But what we did wasn’t a mistake. Without the deception, it’s not something to be ashamed about.”

Rather than say anything in response, Draco leaned over to rest his forehead on Harry’s shoulder.

“Will you be okay if I leave? I’ll tell you where your wand is.”

Draco nodded.

“Will you sit up, then?”

When Draco looked up, his face was once again streaked with tears. He reached out with both hands and held Harry’s face.

Their kiss this time held a different kind of desperation; they had tried too hard to get it perfect.

Harry gripped his shoulder, and after they parted he let out a long breath. “For once, I’d like to kiss you when you’re not crying.”

“And I’d like to feel like you don’t just want to fix me.”

“I don’t—I’m not—it’s more complicated than that.” Harry stood. “I’ve put your wand in the wall outside of the Slytherin common room.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll be alright. I promise.”

Draco had started to chew his nails, and it took visible effort for him respond. “Thanks, Potter.”

That night, Harry waited for Draco to break into the Gryffindor common room. He never did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter illustration image description: A pop art-style illustration. The lone figure is a cool-colored Draco, depicted only from the neck up as he takes off a warm-colored mask of Ginny.]


	12. Kreacher's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guilt is hidden in untold stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter illustration image description at the end of the chapter.

  
  
  


As Harry began to accept he could be attracted to blokes, memories bubbled up out of the depths of his subconscious.

One such memory was an interaction he’d had with Cedric Diggory about the Second Task.

“Well . . . take a bath, okay?” Cedric had said.

“What?”

“Take a bath, and, er, take the egg with you, and, er, just mull things over in the hot water. It’ll help you think . . . trust me.”

Harry stared at him.

“Tell you what, use the prefects’ bathroom. Fourth door to the left of that statue of Boris the Bewildered on the fifth floor. Password’s ‘pine fresh.’ Gotta go . . . want to say good night—”

He grinned at Harry again and hurried back down the stairs to Cho.

Harry had walked back to Gryffindor Tower alone, trying to work out the meaning behind the extremely strange advice. _Why would a bath help him work out what the wailing egg meant?_ he had wondered.

His feelings had been a jumble of intense confusion and jealousy over Cho. Among the noise in his brain following Cedric’s advice, he felt like Cedric was coming on to him but he had subconsciously worked through and dismissed that possibility. Had he misplaced his jealousy of Cedric as being about a girl, when it had been about both of them? He’d clung to his crush on Cho because it was all new and exciting—and while his attraction had been real, he had difficulty seeing his feelings as meaningful in hindsight.

When Dudley had asked whether Cedric was his boyfriend, it hurt beyond the terrible circumstances of his death. _No, it wasn’t like that, why should it matter if it was? That’d be worse, if he were my boyfriend and died, and I’d have hexed Dudley right then and there . . ._

With Ginny, sure, his feelings had meant more and could not be so easily dismissed. Once she became older, tougher, and more mature, he found himself wanting her. Cho was too sensitive, too _feminine_ , even. Ginny, by contrast, fit stereotypically masculine traits—she was independent, rugged, and opinionated—on top of being a caring, intelligent, and beautiful person. With her, he could have accepted the part of him that was attracted to masculinity without fully confronting his attraction to boys.

Thinking back to his childhood, he could assume now that his desire for friendship with his male classmates may have been prevented him from realizing other feelings. Thanks to the power of Dudley and his gang, he had no close friends growing up, so the companionship he desired was platonic with boys, only occasionally romantic with girls. 

He tried not to stare too long at other children, for this gave them even more of an excuse to ostracize him. Still, couldn’t help paying more attention to those he wished to befriend.

There was Sarah, a girl who reminded him of Ginny, for she liked sports and got on well with people. She had brown hair, pale blue eyes, and skin that was tanned from family holidays in Spain and other sunny places. At some point in his third year of primary school, all of the boys around his age decided to fancy her. Even after this fad subsided, Harry passed the time by imagining what it would be like to be her friend, to camp out in the light of her influence.

It would be too simple to say Harry favored people who conducted heat. He sought other loners, whether they preferred to keep to themselves to read, or were outcasts like him, or were accessories to their supposed friends.

In his fourth year, there was a boy who spent recess roaming the playground, rejecting calls from others for him to join their games. The boy—Evan—was as short as Harry, though dissimilarly had the appearance of being well cared for. Knowing that Dudley’s gang would make Evan a target if they became even acquaintances, Harry kept his distance. As they both wandered the playground and kept to themselves, he liked to imagine they were kindred spirits, and could have been best friends had their circumstances been different. When someone in their class or their teacher said something that was obnoxious, cruel, or otherwise frustrating, they would exchange a look, and he would feel his stomach buzz with satisfaction. After less than a year at the school, though, Evan moved away, leaving Harry alone once more.

What was the line between wanting desperately to have someone in your life, for their affection, time, and respect, and wanting them romantically? Harry could only speculate how his childhood self felt. Even now it took time to see whether someone he was interested in was better off as a friend.

As though it wasn’t enough to struggle through an identity crisis, he still had to consider how to end the time loop and how to destroy the Horcruxes.

Rather than waste time interpreting Dumbledore’s cryptic advice and half-truths, Harry planned to sneak into his office in the hour before dinner for something useful. On the days he attended class, the headmaster tended to visit McGonagall first, then Filch.

Hermione helped him scour the office for information (only with the assurance that time would reset). She found a folder filled with notes and pages carefully ripped out of books.

“Oh, hang on— _Astendo Horcrux!”_ said Harry, flicking his wand. A few pages flew out of the folder.

Hermione gathered them back up and began to skim. “There’s not a lot here. Let’s see . . . Okay, here, he’s written that to destroy a Horcrux, you have to do something so destructive that the Horcrux can’t repair itself.”

That piece of insight composed the extent of their findings, as most other cupboards were sealed shut with protective spells. To make the most use of the note, Harry decided to leverage it against Dumbledore:

“Yesterday, Hermione and I went into your office to see if you had any information on how to destroy Horcruxes. One of the books said you have to do something destructive enough that the Horcrux wouldn’t be able to repair itself.”

“After so many months in the time loop, I suppose your sense of right and wrong has become skewed.”

Harry pressed forward. “Sir, I need to know what can destroy a Horcrux.”

Dumbledore met his gaze. “What will you do with the information?”

“It will help in planning to defeat Voldemort.”

It took a moment for Dumbledore to think this through and weigh the implications. “Not everything I know is certain. So before you rely on my conjecture, I advise you to test the methods’ effectiveness, and allow for multiple possibilities.”

“Okay. Yes, I will.”

“In your second year at Hogwarts, you discovered the first method capable of destroying a Horcrux.”

“Tom Riddle’s diary . . . I stabbed it with a Basilisk fang?”

“Precisely. The venom in that fang corrupted the Horcrux. That is one method. The second tool against Horcruxes is—as of your second year—the sword of Godric Gryffindor. When you killed the Basilisk, it became imbued with its venom, since the sword absorbs whatever may strengthen it. That is how I destroyed Marvolo Gaunt’s ring.” He glanced at his burnt hand.

“How else would I use the venom, other than with the sword?”

“If you retrieved the Basilisk fangs from Salazar Slytherin’s chamber, I am sure they would be as effective. The last method I know—the one I am least sure of—is Fiendfyre, a very powerful curse that conjures a deadly fire, nearly impossible to stop. Only very talented wizards have faced it alone and survived.”

“So . . . every way to destroy a Horcrux requires the deadliest magic?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Phoenix tears are the only antidote to Basilisk venom. Fiendfyre can only be stopped by a complex countercurse. The Killing Curse can destroy a Horcrux contained in a living vessel; the only recorded method of survival requires a sacrifice. This is why it is telling that Voldemort took such a risk with Nagini. He chose objects of power and sentiment that will lead to his downfall.”

Was he falling into the same trap as Voldemort? Letting sentiment cloud his judgement?

He had destroyed time and put his heart in Draco.

“D’you suppose Malfoy will always be a prick?” Harry offhandedly asked Ron and Hermione at dinner that evening.

“I don’t see why he’d bother changing, it’s in his blood,” said Ron through a mouthful of chicken.

“Do you mean will he always be prejudiced and cruel?” asked Hermione, glancing toward the Slytherin table.

“Maybe I should have called him something worse.”

Ron made a colorful suggestion that caused a few of their peers to glance at him.

“People like him,” said Hermione, “will either become self-aware or live an empty sort of life.” She averted her eyes when Draco looked over at them, scowling. “I can’t imagine being happy and wanting to make other people miserable simultaneously.”

“I dunno, he seems pretty happy being a prick,” said Ron. “The Slytherins love him for it, and we hate him for it.”

“Mhm,” said Harry. “And if by some miracle he did change, what would make you forgive him?”

“He’d have to change everything,” said Ron. “Be another person entirely.”

Following this conversation, Harry’s stomach churned whenever Ron and Hermione so much as looked at Draco. He had to tell someone distant enough from his school life that they wouldn’t shut down his feelings, who could understand what it meant to fancy someone of the same sex.

“Would you like some tea?” asked Lupin, straightening the home on his way to the kitchen. Harry had arrived at Grimmauld Place unannounced, quickly assuring Lupin it was nothing urgent—and now sat down on the couch. He knew he shouldn’t feel nervous, as he could always do this exchange over. This coming out would not last.

A few minutes later, Lupin handed Harry his cup of tea and sat down next to him, waiting for him to speak.

“Right.” Harry gripped his cup tightly to prevent his hands from trembling. “There’s something I have to tell you. I would have told Sirius too, if he were still alive.”

Lupin said nothing. Maybe realization dawned in his eyes, maybe he had no idea what Harry was about to say.

“I’m . . . bisexual.”

Lupin’s eyebrows lifted slightly, then he composed himself and squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I—I have something else to tell you, too.” Harry told as much of the story he felt necessary, primarily about the time loop. He proved it existed by recounting everything Lupin had told him the last time he’d visited, including what he knew of Lupin and Sirius’ relationship.

“Was I supportive? Did I know you were asking because of your own feelings?

“ _I_ didn’t know I was asking because of that. Maybe I wasn’t.”

“So what changed?”

“I fancy someone. Er, a bloke. I didn’t before, but with the time loop . . .”

“Would I know him? Of course, if he wants to keep this private, you do not have to tell me.”

Harry exhaled loudly and ran his hands through his hair, psyching himself up. “It’s Draco.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“Yeah, the one and only Draco. Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh, Harry . . .”

_“I know, alright?”_ he groaned. “I know, it’s the bloody worst. I’m such an idiot, I wish nothing had changed.”

“He is straight, is he not?” Lupin fell into thought.

“He’s not straight, he seems to be in denial. Or he hasn’t had the chance to think about it with everything going on. That hardly matters, he and I—it would never work out. He’s a Death Eater, and before the time loop, we both hated each other.”

“Why do you fancy him, then?”

Harry flushed. “It’s hard to explain. I’ve never really put it into words.” He didn’t fully understand it himself. “He doesn’t actually want to be a Death Eater, he’s just afraid of what Voldemort will do to him—”

“So he’s like Peter?”

“No! Well, yes, he’s afraid Voldemort will kill him—but he’s also afraid of what Voldemort would do to his family. I . . . used Veritaserum to ask him questions. I asked him why he became a Death Eater, and that’s that he said.”

Lupin opened his mouth to say something, but Harry continued before he could. “If his family wasn’t working for Voldemort, he wouldn’t be the way he is.”

“And what about Sirius?” Lupin could no longer stop himself.

“Well, you wanted to be with Sirius even though he bullied people, didn’t you?”

“What I meant was, Sirius came from a family of Purebloods, but unlike his brother, he didn’t become a Death Eater. From what I understand, Draco is a prejudiced, unpleasant person. He has hurt people, you included. Look, I know there may be a, temptation, or perhaps you wish to fix him—”

“I have been stuck . . . in time . . . for _eight months.”_ Harry was trembling with indignation. “You can’t understand—I’m not the same person I was before all this. There are things about the world around me, living the same day over and over again, that you can’t even imagine. I can see how everyone _is_. Everyone has . . . opened up to me. I get everyone, now. At least, until the time loop ends.”

“And Draco . . . ?”

“I know I can figure out a way to help him.”

Lupin sighed. “If you’re anything like James, you’ll only be more determined if I warn you about your feelings getting hurt.”

“Yeah.” Now eager to change the subject, Harry moved on to his mission. “I’ve been investigating how to defeat Voldemort. Once I find these two objects, he’ll be vulnerable. I don’t suppose you have any idea of where I could find Helga Hufflepuff’s cup or Salazar Slytherin’s locket?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted a stout figure hurry down the stairs. “Is that Kreacher?” Heart sinking fast, Harry realized the elf must have overheard. Was he running off to inform Voldemort? “Oh no, I’ve got to—” He leapt up and ran after him. As soon as he reached the basement, he saw Kreacher prying a cupboard door open. “What are you doing?”

Kreacher turned to face Harry, not meeting his eyes, and mumbled an answer.

“Do you know something about either of the things I mentioned?”

Kreacher’s head trembled as he tried not to respond, but he was forced to nod.

“The cup?”

Kreacher shook his head, glancing at Lupin as he entered the room.

“The locket?”

Kreacher gurgled in protest.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Harry felt dizzy with excitement. “How did you get it? Can you show me?”

“I cannot show you.” Kreacher’s mouth twisted into an ugly frown.

“Show me. Er, you’ve got to, right? I’d appreciate it if you’d open the cupboard.”

Kreacher looked as though he might faint from the strain, caught between Harry’s request and whatever information he was hiding.

“Look, I just want to see it. You don’t have to give it to me. Afterwards you can hide it somewhere new, if you want.”

“Master expressly forbade me . . . I cannot . . .”

“Who, Sirius?”

“No, foolish boy! Master Regulus, the true son of Mistress Black, he forbade Kreacher, told him to hide the locket . . .” Kreacher pressed his back against the cupboard.

“Why? How did Sirius’ brother get the locket? Did Voldemort give it to him? There’s got to be a reason you’re keeping it here and not somewhere safer. What has Regulus got to do with it?”

At this, Kreacher shook his head, and tears began to run down his wrinkled face. “Of Mistress Black’s two sons, Master Regulus was the one who kept true to the family, who understood what it meant to be pure of blood.”

Lupin and Harry groaned in unison.

“When he was sixteen, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord, while at sixteen Master Sirius ran away, breaking Mistress Black’s heart. He was a weak, self-serving, and unruly boy, while Master Regulus was proud and happy to serve others. He was always kinder to Kreacher than Master Sirius was; he invested in his family and the Dark Lord’s cause to rule Muggles and Mudbloods.”

Harry looked over his shoulder to Lupin, whose solemn expression told him this was not news.

“Master Regulus was a talented wizard, and the Dark Lord took notice. Master Regulus—” Fat tears rolled down Kreacher’s face. “Master always liked Kreacher. And the Dark Lord liked Master. He told Master Regulus that he required an elf.”

“Voldemort needed an elf?” Harry was at a loss. Lupin handed him a tissue, which he passed on to Kreacher.

“Yes, for a very special task. It was an honor, Master Regulus said, to follow the Dark Lord’s orders . . . to do whatever he needed to do, for the greater good . . . and then c-come home.

“So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. Kreacher did not dare ask what they were to do, but obediently followed him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave was a cavern, and in the cavern there was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it . . .”

Kreacher quaked from head to foot, ears drooping.

“Kreacher drank some potion, and he saw terrible things. Death, torture . . . Kreacher’s insides were on fire . . . Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed. He told Kreacher to drink all the potion, he made Kreacher drink it. He dropped a locket, this locket,” he gestured weakly toward it, “into the empty basin . . . He filled it with more potion. And then the Dark Lord sailed away, and Kreacher was left on the island . . .”

Harry first imagined what Hermione would say if she heard this story—it wasn’t as though they needed another reason to despise Voldemort, but he suspected she’d feel sorry for him despite how much he’d demeaned Muggleborns. Then he wondered if Dumbledore knew about the cave and the island.

“Kreacher needed water, so he crawled to the island’s edge and he drank from the black lake . . . and hands, dead hands, came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under the surface . . .”

“Dead hands? Were there bodies attached?”

“Yes. Most terrible creatures, dead people . . .”

“Inferi,” said Lupin quietly.

“What are Inferi?”

“Animated corpses. Not zombies, but similar. Voldemort created an army of them; he had murdered enough people to do so. Powerful dark magic is necessary to bring back the dead—of course, they are not conscious, and are quite terrifying in appearance. The only way you could have survived—oh. You would have to Disapparate.”

Kreacher nodded. “The Dark Lord forgot his magic would not work on Kreacher in the same way . . .”

“Or he didn’t care,” said Lupin.

Kreacher blinked to chase more tears down his face. “So Kreacher was not supposed to survive. But the house-elf’s highest law is his Master’s bidding. Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home . . .”

“Right, he mentioned that, didn’t he? That you would come home.” Respect apparently went a long way with a house-elf, since Kreacher’s sense of duty compelled him to help Harry. “What happened when you got back?”

“Master Regulus was very worried, very worried.” Kreacher’s voice came out as a croak. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden in the house. And then . . . a few days later . . . Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was acting strange, very strange. He told Kreacher to come with him to the cave, he had a new task . . . Kreacher sailed with him to the island with its basin of poison . . .”

“And he made you drink the poison?” said Harry, disgusted.

Kreacher shook his head and wept, unable to continue.

Lupin gasped. “Oh, Merlin . . . so Regulus drank it, didn’t he? And it killed him? We never knew—Sirius never learned how he died.”

“M-Master Regulus b-brought with him a locket like the one the Dark Lord h-had,” said Kreacher, sticking tissue into his nostrils to stop the flow of mucus. “He told Kreacher to take it, and when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets . . .” His words were punctuated with sobs, so that Harry had to concentrate to understand him. “Master told—Kreacher must—leave without him. Go home—keep secret—never tell my Mistress—destroy the locket. And he drank—all of it—Kreacher swapped—Master Regulus—the dead—they dragged him under . . .” He dissolved into hiccups.

Harry pressed forward. “You weren’t able to destroy the locket.”

“N-nothing Kreacher d-did made any mark upon it. Kreacher tried everything, but nothing, nothing worked . . . Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again.” Hysteria entered his speech for the first time. “Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-family what happened in the c-cave . . .”

“And we’re not family,” said Lupin, with the barest hint of bitterness.

Despite everything, had he wanted to be considered one of the Blacks? If it were possible for him to be accepted . . . 

“Look,” said Harry, attempting to strike the right balance between gentle and firm, “Regulus wanted this locket to be destroyed. I can finish what he started. Only I know how to destroy it. You’ve got to do what I say, haven’t you? So please trust me with it.”

Kreacher shook his head, eyes squeezed shut.

“Regulus was very brave, Kreacher,” said Lupin, crouching beside Harry. “He had a change of heart, which is a very rare thing. It could have been you that made him change his loyalty, knowing what Voldemort did to you. If you don’t allow us to destroy the locket, his death will have been for nothing.”

Kreacher let out a long groan, fingers curling around the handle of the cupboard.

“Please open it,” said Harry. And Kreacher obeyed.

Surrounding a makeshift bed of dirty old blankets were glittering trinkets. On top of one pile was a locket encrusted with glittering green stones that formed a serpentine S. Ignoring Kreacher’s protests, Harry pulled Slytherin’s Locket out, holding it in his palm. As with the diadem, shouldn’t there be a sign it was truly the Horcrux? After closing his eyes, he felt a small pulsing, either from his own fingertips or the Horcrux itself.

He opened his eyes at the sound of metal scraping near the fireplace. Kreacher had picked up a poker and magicked it red-hot, about to burn himself before Harry ran over and snatched it out of his hands. “There’s no need for that. Look, how about you come with me when I talk to Dumbledore, and I’ll give you the locket back afterward?”

Mouth stretched into a sarcastic smile, Kreacher Disapparated.

Without taking much time to discuss the evening’s revelations, Harry thanked Lupin for the tea and company before hurrying back to the castle. His heart pounded the entire way to Dumbledore’s office, where Dumbledore had apparently been waiting for him.

“You were not at dinner this evening.”

“Right, about that . . .” Harry reached into his robes and pulled out the locket.

Dumbledore crossed to him. “How . . . ?” Fear flooded his face, more intense than Harry had ever seen him express it before.

“You knew about the cave, didn’t you?” 

“The cave . . . Yes, I began to have my suspicions . . .”

“Well, it’s for the best that you didn’t go. It’s a death trap, and for nothing: Regulus Black planted a fake there. Sirius’ house-elf Kreacher had the real one.”

Dumbledore extended his good hand, and Harry passed it to him.

“There was something I needed to ask Remus in person. When I was at Grimmauld Place, I found it. Also, just recently I found the diadem; it’s in the castle. That just leaves the cup and Nagini, right?”

Dumbledore set the locket on his desk. “You only learned about the Horcruxes a few days ago.”

“No, sir, it’s been eight months. I’ve been trapped in time.”

He quickly caught the Headmaster on what had transpired over the loop. “As I’ve tried to figure out how this happened, I’ve been searching for the Horcruxes.”

Dumbledore looked away abruptly. “In that time, have you told me about the diadem, or your search?”

“Yeah.”

“What about your theories about how the time loop started?”

“All of it.”

After Dumbledore didn’t continue, Harry said, “I haven’t got any leads on Hufflepuff’s Cup. Hopefully my search won’t go on for much longer.”

“Harry, I have to thank you for everything you have done. We can only imagine how many lives your efforts will ultimately save. Please do not take your actions for granted.”

“Thanks, sir. It hasn’t been all bad.”

“Still, it is not life. Only the imitation of life.”

Now it was Harry who fell silent. However true what Dumbledore said was, he wanted to focus on this success, this evidence that his situation meant something.

“Kreacher,” said Harry, and the house-elf Apparated into the room.

“Kreacher will be taking this back,” he said gruffly, snatching the locket on Dumbledore’s desk. He quickly Disapparated.

“You did not want to attempt destroying it?”

“Better to be safe than sorry, right? After the time loop ends, we can destroy them.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I think you are right. If destroying the Horcruxes would end the loop, then we could lose the cup. Once alerted by the destruction of any of his Horcruxes, Voldemort would move it to a more secure location.”

Logically, Harry knew this made sense. With the fate of the wizarding world on him, surely there was no question that he should put the mission first. “At what point,” he began, surprising himself with how choked his voice was, “will I be able to risk it? Another month? A year?”

After letting out a long breath, Dumbledore replied, “I suspect if you dedicate yourself, you could find the cup in less than a year.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Dumbledore smiled. “You will not be alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter illustration image description: Illustrated with black colored pencil. Although it is a bit abstract, the image appears to be a tableau of Regulus Black and Kreacher in the cave where Voldemort hid the locket, with inferi swimming beneath the lake. Light emanates from the lantern held by R.A.B., casting a gradient of light into the cave.


	13. Transfiguration Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 303 days. Maybe Harry's been looking in the right place the entire time, he just hadn't _seen._  
>  TW: anti-gay slur, at the end of the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter illustration image description in the end notes.

 

 

  


Telling Remus about his sexual orientation had been a relief, even though their conversation had been cut short. Harry wanted to tell Ron and Hermione, too, to test their reaction without it sticking—though for the time being he would omit his feelings for Draco.

Once he had explained the time loop, he said, “There’s something else I have to tell you.” If their friendship was truly as steadfast as he thought—after all of their shared brushes with death and the role the pair had played in making him feel worthy of love—surely opening up about himself would only strengthen their bond.

“I’m bisexual.”

Ron looked at Hermione, who didn’t return his expression.

“It means I can fancy people regardless of their gender.”

“Since when?” Ron’s face had gone red. “Are you taking the piss?”

Hermione elbowed him. “Seriously, Ron, he’s clearly trying to open up and that’s what you say?”

“Sorry, it’s just—so you—what you’re saying is—you’re saying you like blokes, then?”

“And girls, too, and it’s not like I fall head over heels for every single guy I see.” Harry was out of his body, watching himself talk from the end of a long tunnel.

“But we’ve always talked about girls!” The pitch of Ron’s voice rose. “And there’s nothing about you that—what I’m trying to say is . . . I dunno.”

Ron and Hermione were both stunned and embarrassed, so Harry waited for them to process the news, despite wanting them to get on with it.

Finally, Ron cleared his throat. “Did you ever—were you ever . . . for me, did you . . .?”

Harry understood the gist of what Ron was asking. “I never fancied you, if that’s what you want to know.”

“Oh. That’s . . .” He probably meant to say “That’s good,” though there was a twinge of dejection in his voice. “Any of my brothers?”

“No, I’ve never—I’ve noticed them, sure, but never fancied them. I suppose, Bill—”

“What about Bill?”

“He’s attractive—”

“That’s just a fact,” added Hermione quickly.

“He’s my brother!”

“And he’s _cool_. I didn’t realize it at the time, how I reacted—what it meant—but out of your brothers . . .”

“How long have you known?” asked Hermione.

“I came to terms with it only a couple months ago. I wouldn’t say I knew earlier, though it wasn’t out of the blue.”

She nodded as Ron watched her, nearly as taken aback by her calmness as by Harry’s confession. Then she asked, “How did you know?”

“Er, we don’t have to get into that now. So neither of you are . . . ?”

They shook their heads.

“Right.” He wasn’t sure if he wished they were queer or if he didn’t care. “What should I say the next time I have to tell you both this?”

Ron opened and closed his mouth, still struggling. Hermione answered first. “Be patient, if you can. We’re not going to understand immediately.” Harry thought she said this more for Ron’s benefit than his own.

* * *

By Harry’s best guess, ten months had passed since the time loop began. In the time between discoveries and encounters with Draco, Harry practiced spells beyond their current coursework, usually with Ron and Hermione. About a third of the time they thought he was acting odd enough that they pressed him for an explanation, and he went through as much of the story as he thought they needed to hear.

At the beginning of the time loop, the spells they had been practicing in Transfiguration came fairly easy to Harry. After ten classes, he could grow a long red beard and cast a black goatee on Ron. After the first several weeks, he could grow out his wild black hair at will. Although more experienced wix could have cast transfiguration spells that lasted much longer, having spent fifty-odd classes and several evenings practicing allowed Harry to transfigure most features for a few hours at a time.

“When you practice these spells,” Professor McGonagall had said many times, “you will find that visualizing how the feature should change is essential. The clearer the image in your head, the better the result.”

From a distance, he could now wandlessly change someone’s features. So one day, after one of his _wouldn’t it be funny if . . ._ thoughts, he tried changing Draco’s eye color in the girl’s bathroom under cover of the invisibility cloak.

Draco yelped and leaned closer to the mirror. “Am I going mad?” He whipped around, confused, then looked back at his reflection, rubbed his eyes, looked again, splashed his face with water, looked again.

“Myrtle?”

Moaning Myrtle floated over to him, concerned by the panic in his voice. “Are my eyes—no, what color are my eyes?”

“They’re green! When did they change?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. They’re—his.”

“His?”

“Potter’s. I thinking about—and then transfigured them by accident? _Mutatio oculos!”_

Immediately, Harry changed his eye color back to green, flinching at Draco’s frustrated shout.

“I can’t leave like this.” Now Draco was examining his face, angling it left, right, up, and down, absently tracing his fingertip from the corner of his eye to his earlobe and under his chin.

Harry swallowed. He expected confusion or frustration, but he couldn’t place Draco’s current expression. Suddenly, he remembered the potion the Weasley twins had been developing and tiptoed out of the bathroom, a plan beginning to take shape.

Draco emerged several minutes later, eyes still green, some color returned to his face. He was so distracted that he ran into Harry.

“Hey, watch where you’re going! Malfoy? What is it?”

“Nothing, Potter, now if you’ll—”

“Hang on, your eyes—”

“It’s nothing. I don’t have to explain myself to you! Why don’t you look at yourself in the mirror?”

Harry took off his glasses and peered into the reflection as though seeing the change for the first time. “They’re like yours! What the—how did—why . . . ?”

Draco turned to glare at him, having already started to walk away. “If you know something and are feigning ignorance, tell me now.”

“Okay, okay.” And now for his plan: “There’s a potion Fred and George Weasley are working on, and they asked me to test it.”

Draco’s sneer faltered somewhat with confusion, and the hand at his wand went slack as he tried to guess what Harry would say next.

“It’s meant to show something to the drinker—me—by changing their eye color. So if your eye color changed too, that means . . .”

Draco’s eyes darted back and forth, betraying his realization of where this must be going.

“If you understand what I’m saying, then meet me in the Astronomy Tower tonight at eight.” With that, Harry headed off in the direction of the Gryffindor common room.

Something about the day seemed significant, stirring some hope in Harry that there was a renewed chance to escape the time loop. As he counted down the minutes to eight o’clock, he wondered if Draco intended to use this opportunity to trap him. Maybe he would show up with Crabbe and Goyle and attack Harry, try to torture him again . . . over the years, Harry’s willingness to dive headfirst into danger clashed with Draco’s tendency to slither his way out of situations at the expense of others.

So Harry waited fifteen minutes past the meeting time he had set before starting to leave.

“That impatient, Potter?” said Draco, emerging from the staircase as Harry made to leave the same way.

“Are you alone?” Harry glanced behind Draco, taking a few steps backward to make room.

“Yes. And you? With your cloak, I can only hope no one—”

Harry pulled his cloak halfway out of his pocket. “I’m alone. We’re alone.”

Face twitching as he suppressed his self-consciousness, Draco said quietly, “I want you to tell me exactly what the potion you drank was meant to do, so there is no misunderstanding.”

“Right. The potion turns your eyes the color of the—the person you’re meant to be with.” Saying this aloud made the shadows in the room rise, the walls creep closer. Why had he chosen such an unnerving place to meet?

“‘Meant to be with’? And it would kill you to be more specific, would it?”

“Be with _romantically_ , you prat! And you can probably guess now, that if the person’s eye color changes to match yours, then they feel the same way. Or did it make a mistake?”

Draco swore under his breath, then pressed his lips together, shifting from foot to foot. His fingers once again reflexively grazed his wand. “You should forget about the potion, there’s obviously something wrong with it, assuming this isn’t some twisted ruse. What about the Weasley girl? I thought you and her would—you two are a better match. A perfect match.”

“And forget you? Don’t tell me you aren’t at least curious.”

Draco flushed at his, then chuckled, rubbing his face with his hands. “This is mad. You’re mad.” He locked eyes with Harry, who barely had time to reach up by the time Draco had strode over to him and kissed him—a bit clumsily, given the abruptness of it. Harry wordlessly reassured him by touching his neck, albeit with a bit more force than he had intended.

This Draco was greedy, barely pausing for breath, using his tongue in a way that betrayed his inexperience. Liquid joy poured through Harry, increasing upon his realization that for once, Draco wasn’t crying.

His hair gel.

The roughness of his chapped lips.

The way he stooped slightly so they were the same height.

“Still think I’m mad?” asked Harry once they parted, their foreheads pressed together.

When Harry tilted his head to continue, Draco angled his head away and stepped back. “Give me a moment.” He began to pace, running his hands through his hair, breathing in through his nose, exhaling through his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “Maybe it was too much—”

_“Obliviate!”_

Harry looked around, feeling stuck in the turmoil one experiences when jumping into water from a great height, crashing between the vastness of air and the weightlessness of water. The bodily disorientation lasted for a full minute. When the world made sense to him again, he tried to remember why he was in the Astronomy Tower.

Time loop . . . transfiguration . . . Draco . . . so what had happened that day? He had to assume Draco cast a Memory Charm. Had only one day passed since he could last remember? What if months had gone by, all gone to waste—but no, when he patted his cloak pocket, he found a piece of parchment with notes from that morning’s class. It had to be the same day, then.

Was his heart racing because of the charm or because of what had preceded it? He reached into his pockets again. No invisibility cloak . . . it was possible he’d left it in the dorm. Or Draco had stolen it.

If time resumed the next day instead of skipping back, then Draco would have two things to hold over him: his lost memory and his cloak. At least the cloak wouldn’t allow him to kill Dumbledore, who could see him regardless.

Thankfully, the next morning, his glasses were not where he’d moved them; time had repeated once more. Whatever had happened, it was intense enough that Draco had needed to wipe his memory. It wasn’t yet half-past, so the possibilities were limited.

He had to be more cautious the next time he pushed Draco. But that was easier said than done . . .

Every few weeks, Harry visited Myrtle’s bathroom. There was always the chance he could learn something new from her. It had been a long time since he had tried to interfere with Draco’s visit; he typically visited after the sob-fest had ended. This time, however, he came before Draco arrived.

“Myrtle? You there?” he called, knowing full well she was there and would be a bit upset, knowing she would warm to him, knowing Draco would join her soon, knowing he could always try this again the next day.

Moaning Myrtle rose out of her stall, arms crossed. “I am, Harry Potter. You know, it’s been a while since you’ve visited me.”

“I know, and I’m truly sorry, I never meant to hurt you.” This was an abbreviated version of his typical apology, and probably pushing his luck. “I need your help.”

“Oh? So you didn’t come here because you miss me . . .”

“Of course I missed you. I just have to make this quick. Draco is going to come here in, er, maybe twenty minutes or so, and when he says he has no idea what to do, tell him I can help.”

“How do you know he’s coming here?” Myrtle pouted. “This was supposed to be our secret, and you two aren’t friends.”

“He says he hates me, and that’s true, I suppose—but I don’t hate him. I haven’t for a while.”

“Why should I believe you when you haven’t visited me in so long?”

“I fancy him, Myrtle, is that enough of a reason?”

She stared at him, then shrieked and spun around. “Harry Potter has a crush! Your secret’s safe with me, Harry. Plenty of boys and girls like you have come to me . . . crying about forbidden love . . . I can understand, you know, about love that is forbidden . . .” She winked at him, and he felt oddly comforted by her twisted enthusiasm.

“Right, you realize you could do a better job of reassuring me you can handle this? Anyhow, I’m going to go back under the cloak, so just pretend I’m not here.”

“Yes, I can do that for you, Harry! Oh, I mean, who said that? Is someone there? I’ve not heard a thing.” Giggling, she flew back and forth around the bathroom, excitement mounting as the minutes passed.

When Draco finally appeared, she froze and looked theatrically solemn. “Oh, Draco, what’s wrong?”

Before she even finished asking the question, he burst into tears, covering his face with his hands, shoulders heaving.

Myrtle chewed her fingernails, her desire to bring up Harry sharp in her eyes as she waited for an in. “I’m sorry, Draco . . . I’m sorry.”

Malfoy heaved a shaking breath and looked at her. From where he stood, Harry could see his face in detail, the red-rimmed eyes, the glisten of snot below his nostril, the crinkles in his chin. “Y-you ha-have nothing to be s-sorry for. It’s all up to me . . .”

“Would it be easier if you had someone to help you?”

“You can’t help me. No one can. It’s impossible, there’s nothing . . . no one . . . I’m completely alone, I can’t . . .”

“What about Harry Potter?”

Draco’s head snapped to face her. _“Potter?”_ he spluttered, eyes wide. “What does he have to do with anything?”

Myrtle twirled in the air beside Draco, giggling with glee. Harry clenched his fists, wishing he knew a spell that would silence a ghost.

A furious blush rose in Draco’s cheeks. “I didn’t come here for you to mock me. I—”

“He fancies you.” Myrtle glanced in Harry’s direction, then back at Draco, greedily drinking in his shock.

“He _what?_ ”

“He told me today. He was in here earlier. He wishes he knew how to help you, he told me he has _feelings_ for you.”

Draco’s tears were gone; perhaps the mention of Harry was enough pressure to compose him. “He only said that to find out what I’m planning.” He scoffed. “What an idiot. He must be desperate if he’s resorting to—” His face fell. “How would he know I talk to you? _Have you told him?”_

Myrtle floated backwards, shrugging. This was not the passionate confession she undoubtedly expected. “He already knew, he came in here asking how he could help, not about us.”

Draco rubbed his temple. “If anyone found out . . . my friends, if they found out you and I meet like this . . .”

“I know! I know, Draco! But he gave me a reason to believe him.”

Draco fell silent and studied the enthusiasm in her features, his own face twitching slightly in annoyance. “Fine. If you cannot convince me, I will not come here again, and I do not want to see you again, ever.”

Myrtle’s face contorted. “I’m trying to help you! You’ve always said I can’t, but if I can help Harry help you—” She glanced toward where Harry was standing.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I never imagined you would side with Potter.”

Myrtle’s voice rose. “Harry’s telling the truth! He told me he hasn’t fancied you for very long. He loathed you, but now he doesn’t—”

“He’s lying!”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Again, Myrtle glanced behind him.

Draco drew in a breath. “What do you keep—?”

Harry threw off his cloak.

Draco drew his wand. _“Stupefy!”_

_“Protego!”_

The two boys stared at each other, wands raised.

Draco’s mouth curled into a grin. “You should not have lied, Potter, now the whole school will think you’re flaming . . .”

Harry frowned and pocketed his wand. “I wasn’t lying. And I can help you, if you let me explain.”

Draco shifted his grip on his wand, slender neck straining as he swallowed. “I do not want your help. If I told you, everything would go to shit.”

Harry broke into a sweat, and he itched to reach for his wand again. “We can figure out a way. At least—if you told Dumbledore why you have to do what Voldemort wants, you won’t feel guilty later.”

Draco’s eyes flashed and he took a step forward, wand aimed at Harry’s head. “What do you know about that?”

Usually, when Draco found out that Harry knew more than he should, he ran to Snape, or swore he would inform Voldemort. Based on the last successful conversation they had, Harry knew he couldn’t convince Draco unless he offered a realistic solution or had help from Snape.

“I know just about everything. You have to kill Dumbledore, so you’re planning to use the Vanishing Cabinet to sneak in Death Eaters—”

Draco’s face crumpled and he sliced his wand through the air, sending sparks flying at Harry, who jumped back just in time.

Harry drew his wand. _“Petrificus Totalus! Molliare!”_ Draco’s limbs snapped together and he fell just before reaching the door.

Harry cast a Muffling Charm and propped Draco against the wall. “I’ll free you in a moment. First, I want you to listen. I know what happens if you don’t do what you’ve been told to do, and if everything goes according to plan, I know how to help you. If you don’t kill Dumbledore, your parents will be killed, along with you, probably. If you do kill him, your father will be freed from Azkaban, and your family will be restored in Voldemort’s eyes. But he expects you to fail.

“You don’t want to kill Dumbledore, especially since he is one of the people—maybe _the_ person—preventing all-out war. And you’re not a murderer. I found all of this out because I’m in a time loop, meaning that each night, time resets, and I live out the same Thursday over again. It has been months, so I’ve spent some days trying to figure out how to defeat Voldemort. At first, my priority was figuring out what you were doing, but as I learned more, I started getting closer to defeating Voldemort. See, he’s stayed alive by splitting his soul into pieces, and he protects those pieces by encasing them in rare objects. By finding them, we can kill him for good.

“As all of this was happening, I began to—er, I began to fancy you. We’ve . . . kissed a few times. Oh God, this is more awkward than I thought it would be.”

He took a moment to collect himself, then continued, “There was a chance you could feel the same way, but I rarely catch a glimpse of that. Of course, I wish it was the case, but I can hardly expect anything from you.” He briefly looked into Draco’s eyes. “I doubt you believe me. There’s nothing I can do to prove it to you, so I won’t bother. At least know I no longer hate you. And if I succeed, you will no longer have to fear for your life.” He pondered if he had anything left to say. “I’m going to remove the spell now. Don’t pull anything.” He took a few steps back. _“Finite Incantatem.”_

Draco sprang up, reached for his wand, and, remembering Harry had taken it, lunged for him. He grabbed Harry by the front of his robes and backed him up to the bathroom wall so that he hit his head against the stone.

Stars flashed in front of Harry’s eyes, and if it wasn’t for Draco’s hold on him, he might have fallen.

“Don’t. Lie. To. Me,” Draco hissed through his teeth.

Harry struggled to reply, shocked by the impact. He put his hands on Draco’s shoulders to steady himself and lifted his head.

Draco stared at Harry, face red and eyes wide, pointed chin wobbling as he debated what to say. _“You wouldn’t really want to kiss me, would you, Potter?”_ His words dripped with malice and his breath shook. He leaned closer. “I bloody dare you.”

Harry didn’t react at first, too shocked to know what to do. But then Draco kissed him, and he kissed back, more gently—

Draco wrenched himself away, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were wild with fear, and then—before Harry could figure out what exactly he was about to do—he ran into one of the bathroom stalls and vomited.

Moaning Myrtle chose this moment to rise up out of the adjacent stall and let out a long whine. “Oh, this is terrible.”

Harry winced as Draco retched again, this time punctuated by a sob.

“Er, are you all right?” Harry felt thick for asking, but he didn’t know what else to say.

“J-just go.”

Harry walked cautiously over to the stall where Draco bent over the toilet. He was about to reach out and touch Draco’s shoulder when Draco said, “I told you to leave.”

“But—”

_“Get the hell out, faggot!”_

Harry’s mouth dropped open. With tremendous effort, he said evenly, “Fine. If you don’t want my help, I’ll leave you alone.” With tears burning in his eyes, Harry strode across the room to retrieve his invisibility cloak and left.

The slur buzzed in his head like an angry insect, stinging his thoughts. It couldn’t hurt more than Draco using the Cruciatus Curse on him earlier in the loop. Or more than his calling Hermione a Mudblood, betraying Dumbledore’s Army to Umbridge, crushing Harry’s nose on the Hogwarts Express—he could add this to the list of insults over the years.

Why had Draco used that slur if he was the one who kissed Harry in the first place?

Something about Draco’s reaction resonated on a deeper level, almost like déjà vu. It took Harry two days to come up with an explanation for why the incident had seemed familiar. He spent much of that time racking his brain, but it wasn’t until he had reached the lowest point in his shame that he stumbled upon the connection:

_Why did I delude myself?_ Any chance of a relationship was entirely invented, and as soon as the bubble burst, they would end up right where they started, no matter what Harry did in the war. They were ideologically opposed, and Draco’s insult only made Harry realize it would be better if they went their separate ways—

He stopped in his tracks. The moment had felt familiar because it was. In fifth year, he had seen Snape call his mother _Mudblood._ He’d assumed the painful part of the memory was due to bullying, but maybe present Snape had reacted so strongly for another reason.

Where did the similarities begin and end? He and Draco openly hated each other, so a slur could never mean much. Draco had called Hermione a Mudblood on numerous occasions. And Ron was a blood traitor. Faggot, Mudblood, blood traitor. Brown, black. Poor. Out of all the labels the trio held, Draco had only skirted race in his insults, a cultural phenomenon Harry was keen to appreciate after years being known as the only brown kid at his primary school.

Labels still followed him at Hogwarts—the Chosen One and the Boy Who Lived—but this new label was jarring. It felt less like it was a name had been spoken at him and more like it had been spoken from within him. Would Draco call him that word in front of other people, or was this between the two of them? Had he called other people by the same slur?

For Merlin’s sake, why would Draco use that slur if it could be just as easily applied to him?

More than any other single word, _Sectumsempra_ could have ended something. More than any other fight, casting the Prince’s spell was a turning point that Harry could imagine carrying with him over the years.

Harry finally regained his senses and found himself standing at the door to Snape’s office.

He knocked, and a moment later, the door swung open and Snape was glaring at him.

“What is it, Potter? You realize there are precious few minutes until curfew.”

“I have to talk to you.”

“Can it wait?”

“I suppose—” The door shut in his face.

Well, then. Tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been busier than usual, which is why this update is later than anticipated--in my efforts to get the next chapter up quickly, my editing may not be quite to par, but I hope to return to this later to tweak.
> 
> [Chapter illustration image description: An edited photo of a toilet viewed from above. What would normally be a bright toilet seat and tiles are now dark, and in the bowl is a swirling grid of colors. The overall feeling is foreboding and unnatural.]


	14. The Prince's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's been searching for the answer to one question for a year. Just as he thinks he's learned everything he possibly could, he's given answers to more questions than he could have thought to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahead of this chapter I wanted to explain my intent here (and hopefully not over-explain). You may infer this from the title of the chapter, but it is largely adapted to suit my style/needs from the original Prince’s Tale from HPDH, while retaining all canon dialogue as it was written in the American edition. More than half of this chapter is composed of original scenes. I hope you won’t feel cheated out of original content or view this as simply plagiarism. My aim with this fic has been to present it as canon-divergent, which in this case means writing “as though” one hasn’t read the end of the sixth and the seventh book. Important information is conveyed here! Regardless of your stance on Snape, I hope my decision makes sense as the fic unfolds.  
> Per usual, the chapter illustration image description is at the end of the chapter.

 

 

 

Following the next day’s classes, Harry once more went to see Snape, this time forcing his way into his office by saying he had information about the Horcruxes. Beginning with the day he’d nearly killed Draco, he duly recounted the events of the time loop. To avoid involving the Prince, he said Draco cracked his head on the bathroom floor after getting hit by his Stunning Spell. Beyond that, only when it was absolutely necessary did he mention Draco, omitting any instance of his efforts to extract information from him. At the end, Harry explained the regret theory that he had wrestled with for the past several months.

Snape was initially suspicious, but he seemed to realize Harry’s sincerity and the level of detail couldn’t be fabricated, nor could he have invented his discoveries about the Horcruxes.

“. . . I think I figured out how it all started,” Harry finally said. “In the memory I saw in my fifth year, you and my dad hated each other, and toward the end of a fight you called my mum a—a Mudblood. That was significant, wasn’t it? You were prejudiced against her because of her birth, so—”

“You have no idea what you are talking about. Absolutely no idea.” Snape had gone completely still, whether with fury or some other feeling, Harry couldn’t tell. “Ample opportunity to learn, and yet there is still much you fail to comprehend.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do now? Er, sorry.”

“We were friends.”

“Who were—?”

“She and I were friends before I used that terrible word. After that, we . . . went our separate ways.”

“ _Really?_ I find it incredibly hard to believe that you’d get on. Why would she ever have . . .” At the lines deepening in Snape’s face, Harry decided against pursuing that thought for the time being. “Still, that sounds similar to what happened with me and Draco. After hurting him, there was little chance of going back. It was the most significant thing that happened that day; it had to have been what caused the time loop. I mean, we weren’t friends at the time, or anything, but I’m in Gryffindor like my mum, and Draco is in Slytherin—”

“I assure you, it is far from the same.”

“What do you mean?”

Snape was silent for a long time, out of what seemed to be a combination of self-reflexive shock and his desire to be opaque.

Harry tried to meet his eye. “Give me a reason I should trust you about this when I can’t trust you about anything else. When Dumbledore refuses to tell me why he trusts you.”

“If I tell you anything of importance, that information may be accessible to the Dark Lord, were he to use Legilimency against you. Have you so little faith in the Headmaster that every detail of his plan must be explained?”

“Look, it’s coming on a year now, and the time loop hasn’t ended. I’d let you to use a Memory Charm on me once the loop ends if you want, but for now it’ll be of more use if I know.”

Snape shook his head. “I must ask you to leave my office, Potter.”

“Voldemort hasn’t tried to get into my mind since earlier this year—your year. He could have, but he hasn’t, so I doubt he will any time soon.”

Snape rubbed his temple. “Do not presume to understand more than I do about how Dark Lord operates. You have eluded him many times, but your luck will hardly last forever.”

“Exactly. That’s why we’ve got to work together for once.”

“There is little I can do to change your current circumstances.” Snape studied him, black eyes on green. “The theory regarding the time loop has some merit, perhaps unsurprisingly, as it was the faculty who developed the idea. On the day after your mother ended our friendship, I attempted to change the past by creating a curse that would reset time to before the incident.”

“And it didn’t work?”

“No.”

Harry, who had been sitting, got to his feet, despite feeling dizzy. “Are you the reason I’ve been trapped? Do you know how to fix this?”

“Possibly, and unfortunately, no. At the time, I assumed I failed.” Snape sat down at his desk, and with a slight sneer, he said, “If my curse is indeed the cause of your present situation, of course it would save the hide of the Boy Who Lived.”

Ignoring this, Harry pressed, “But it didn’t work, not if you meant it only for one day.”

“If it is strong enough to repeat for months on end, then the enchantment has likely compounded over the years, feeding on the regrets of other students. That in turn must have made it . . . unstable, and likely less discerning in terms of identifying need. What I have to wonder is why the Weasley girl’s feelings were insufficient when she tried to rid herself of the diary in the very same bathroom.”

“I don’t know, but of course I regretted what I did. After hurting Draco— _Malfoy_ ,” added Harry, stumbling to add Draco’s surname, “I wasn’t allowed to play Quidditch, and loads of people were mad at me. And of course I didn’t want to nearly kill him.”

Snape scoffed. “When I created the curse, I felt blinding pain beyond anything I had previously experienced. It changed the course of my life. You merely felt guilty.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t understand. Before this happened, I hated Draco, whereas you . . .”

Snape kept his eyes fixed on something else in the room. When he spoke, his voice was so low it took Harry a moment to register what he’d said: “You were never supposed to know.”

“I’m always the last person to know, for Merlin’s sake! This is about more than Voldemort, isn’t it—”

_“Quiet, Potter.”_ Snape’s hand was back at his temple. “Understand that if I explain myself, you will learn the biggest mistake of my life. You so flippantly barge into other people’s affairs . . . I would rather have died than have to face you after this . . .”

Harry didn’t press him, as he’d seen that kind of apprehension in someone’s eyes enough times over the course of the loop to know it preceded a confession. 

“She and I—your mother and I—had a difficult friendship as students, often fraught with our differences—differences in background, in values . . . I pursued the Dark Arts, while she opposed them . . . but we put those things aside—attempted to overlook them—for the sake of what we had. I doubt she realized . . .” Snape fell silent, and after enough time passed, Harry’s world began to tilt as his mind filled in the blank. “. . . my attachment to her exceeded friendship.”

Harry felt as though he were watching himself from outside of his body. He couldn’t tell if everything finally added up, or if his reality had abruptly become more confusing. “You fancied my mum? And you still chose to be a Death Eater?”

Snape ran a hand over his face. “I will always live with regret.”

Harry sat back down, shaking a bit. “So were you pretending to hate me?”

Snape turned and looked at him, expression severe. “To say I hated you undermines everything I have sacrificed. Perhaps you have a tendency to be unruly, attention-seeking, and illogical like your father . . . You had to be reined in or you would endanger the larger purpose: defeating the Dark Lord. I do not wish to explain the entirety of my reasoning. But for now it is best I maintain appearances or my position as a double agent could be compromised.”

“Really, what you’re saying is you don’t have a valid reason for why you’ve made school miserable for me?”

“After everything your father did? Regardless, you should not expect the world to coddle you, Potter. It was easier to live in mutual distaste. There were a number of occasions where your ignorance protected you and your friends.”

“But now I _can’t_ hate you, just like I can’t hate Draco. And you’ll forget about all of this, and go back to acting like you hate me.”

“Yes, well. It is difficult for me to explain myself in words you can understand.” Snape hesitated. “I would rather show you. Were it not for your current situation, and I had to face you after—it would be difficult to live with.”

“How can you—?”

“The Pensieve. After dinner, go to the Headmaster’s office; I will have left the memories there. I do not wish to be around afterward, considering what you might see.”

“You mean, you won’t have control over them?”

“The volume of memories may be too much for me to control. I will focus on a feeling, a theme, and the memories will follow. Then, you will understand why Albus has put his faith in me.” He nodded toward the door. “I shall tell the Headmaster to expect you.”

After scarfing down dinner, Harry hurried to the Headmaster’s Tower. The gargoyle opened upon his arrival, and upstairs, he found the room was empty.

He approached the Pensieve, unsure if he even wanted to understand Snape. Still, the memories beckoned, and before he fully realized he had dipped his face into the basin, Harry fell into the memory, sun bright in his eyes, landing on warm ground. When he straightened up, he saw that he had materialized next to a mostly deserted playground. A single huge chimney loomed in the distance over rows of tightly packed houses. Two girls swung backward and forward on the swing set as a boy watched them from behind a clump of bushes. He was thin, his black hair falling well past his shoulders, and he wore clothes that were so uncoordinated it had to be deliberate: his jeans hit him mid-calf, his tunic hung around him like drapes, and his large coat swallowed his frame.

Harry moved closer. Snape had to be no more than nine or ten years old. There was unabashed longing in his thin face as he watched the younger of the two girls—Lily, Harry realized with a jolt.

His mother swung higher and higher, much higher than her sister, who must have been Petunia.

“Lily, don’t do it!” shrieked Petunia.

Just as she said this, Lily let go of the swing at the height of its arc, flying into the air with a gleeful shout of laughter. Instead of scraping her knees on the playground asphalt, she soared through the air like a trapeze artist and landed lightly with a bow.

“Mummy told you not to!” Petunia dragged the heels of her sandals on the ground to stop her swing, then leapt up, her hands on her hips. “Mummy said you weren’t allowed, Lily!”

“But I’m fine,” said Lily, still giggling. “Tuney, look at this. Watch what I can do.”

Petunia glanced around, but to her they were alone.

Lily picked up a fallen flower from the bush Snape lurked behind. Petunia stormed to her, face twisting between curiosity and disapproval. Lily waited until her sister was near enough to have a clear view, then held out her palm. The flower rested there, opening and closing its petals.

Petunia recoiled. “Stop it!”

“It’s not hurting you.” Still, Lily closed her hand on the flower and threw it back onto the ground.

“It’s not right.” Despite her apparent frustration, Petunia’s gaze lingered on the crumpled flower. “How do you do it?” There was a definite ache in her voice.

On cue, Snape jumped out from behind the bushes. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Petunia yelped and ran away toward the swings, but Lily, though clearly startled, remained where she was. Snape shrunk back, a dull flush of color rising in his sallow cheeks when Lily looked at him.

“What’s obvious?” Lily tilted her head.

Snape had an air of nervous excitement. He glanced at the distant Petunia, who now hovered beside the swings, then lowered his voice and said, “I know what you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re . . . you’re a witch.”

Lily’s mouth dropped open. “That’s not a very nice thing to say to somebody!” She turned, nose in the air, and marched off toward her sister.

“No!” Snape’s voice rose in pitch and he flapped after the girls, looking much like an injured bat.

The sisters considered him, and Harry was struck by how similar their looks of disapproval were to each other. He hadn’t entertained the idea that Petunia would have anything in common with his mother beyond shared blood.

Snape tried again. “You are. You are a witch. I’ve been watching you for a while. But there’s nothing wrong with that. My mum’s one, and I’m a wizard.”

Petunia’s laugh rained on Snape like hail. “Wizard!” Now that she was recovered from the shock of his unexpected appearance, her courage had returned. “I know who you are. You’re that Snape boy! They live down Spinner’s End by the river,” she told Lily, and it was evident from her tone that there wasn’t a worse place to be. “Why have you been spying on us?”

“Haven’t been spying.” Snape squirmed, hot and uncomfortable in the bright sunlight. Harry realized he kept his coat on to cover up his dirty tunic. “Wouldn’t spy on _you_ , anyway. You’re a Muggle.”

Although Petunia didn’t understand the word, she could hardly mistake Snape’s intent. “Lily, come on, we’re leaving!”

At this, Lily turned to follow her sister, glaring at Snape as she left.

Snape stood watching them as they marched through the playground gate. His bitter disappointment was clear to Harry, and he understood that Snape had been planning this moment for a while, and that it had all gone wrong . . .

The scene dissolved, reforming into a new memory.

Harry was now in a small thicket of trees, a sunlit river glittering through their trunks. The shadows cast by the trees cradled Snape and Lily as they sat cross-legged facing each other. Snape no longer wore his coat, and his odd tunic looked less peculiar in the half-light. They must have been within a year of the previous memory.

Lily had been spinning a dandelion between her fingers and stopped to weave it into her hair. “Have you already got a head start? You know, since you’ve grown up with magic?”

“My mum can do magic, she’s of age, but we’re not old enough. Once you’re at Hogwarts, you can only do magic in school. And the Ministry can punish you if you do magic outside school; you get letters.”

“But I have done magic outside school!”

“We’re all right. We haven’t got wands yet. They let you off when you’re a kid and you can’t help it. But once you’re eleven and they start training you, then you’ve got to be careful.”

There was a brief silence. Lily had picked up a fallen twig and twirled it in the air, and Harry knew that she was imagining sparks trailing from it. Then she dropped the twig, leaned in toward Snape, and said, “It is real, isn’t it? It’s not a joke? Petunia says you’re lying to me. Petunia says there isn’t a Hogwarts. It is real, isn’t it?”

“It’s real for us,” said Snape, “Not for her. But we’ll get the letter, you and me.”

“Really?” Lily’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Definitely.” Even with signs of his ill care—his poorly cut hair and odd clothes—Snape’s confidence in his destiny made him appear untouchable and impressive. 

“And will it really come by owl?”

Snape nodded. “Normally. But you’re Muggleborn, so someone from the school will have to come and explain to your parents.”

“Does it make a difference, being Muggleborn?”

Harry at once felt the irony, the fate of their friendship in only five years’ time.

Snape’s black eyes, eager in the greenish gloom, fixed on her. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

“Good,” said Lily, relaxing. It was clear that she had been worrying.

“You’ve got loads of magic. I saw that. All the time I was watching you . . .” His voice trailed away; she wasn’t listening, having stretched out on the leafy ground to gaze up at the canopy of leaves overhead. Snape watched her as intensely as he had watched her in the playground.

“How are things at your house?” asked Lily.

A little crease appeared between his eyebrows. “Fine.”

“They’re not arguing anymore?”

“Oh yes, they’re arguing.” Snape picked up a fistful of leaves and began tearing them apart, apparently unaware of what he was doing. “But it won’t be that long and I’ll be gone.”

“Doesn’t your dad like magic?”

“He doesn’t like anything, much,” said Snape. He seemed to want to tell her something, his mouth twitching, but apparently decided against it.

“Severus?”

A small smile twisted Snape’s mouth when she said his name. “Yeah?”

“Tell me about the dementors again.”

The scene dissolved, and Harry was now in what must have been Snape’s bedroom—a small, mostly empty room hung in shadows.

He stepped closer to the trembling form on the bed. It was Snape, curled nearly completely under the covers. As soon as Harry saw his face, he sucked in a breath. Blood streamed from Snape’s bruised face into his pillow, and it was difficult to tell if he was sobbing or just breathing heavily. His eyes were open, but listless.

A woman quietly entered the room. Without saying a word, she pulled out her wand and waved it over Snape, sealing his wounds. Chin raised slightly as she braced herself, she lifted up the covers. She quickly dropped the covers and gagged, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. The woman (whom he had to assume was Snape’s mother) summoned a fresh set of clothing and placed it at the foot of the bed.

Harry’s gut churned with apprehension, but he was powerless. He could only watch the face of Snape’s mother as she turned away, eyes shining.

The scene dissolved before he could make sense of it all.

Harry now watched as Snape hurried along the corridor of the Hogwarts Express, glancing into each compartment. He had already changed into his school robes, likely so he could take off his disheveled Muggle clothes. Toward the back of the train, he stopped outside a compartment in which two boys—Sirius and James—were talking. As much as he looked like his father, Harry had been much unhealthier on his first day; by contrast, James had the straight-backed, easygoing appearance of a child well-cared for. Hunched in a corner seat beside the window was Lily, her face pressed against the windowpane.

Snape slid open the compartment door and sat down opposite Lily. She glanced at him and then looked back out of the window. She had been crying.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, voice constricted.

“Why not?”

“Tuney h-hates me. Because we saw that letter from Dumbledore.”

“So what?”

She threw him a look of distaste. “So she’s my sister!”

“She’s only a—” He caught himself quickly; Lily, too busy trying to wipe her eyes without being noticed, didn’t hear him.

“But we’re going!” he said, unable to suppress the exhilaration in his voice. “This is it! We’re off to Hogwarts!”

She nodded, mopping her eyes, but in spite of herself, she half-smiled.

“You’d better be in Slytherin,” said Snape, encouraged.

“Slytherin?” James’ attention flipped to the two. “Who wants to be in Slytherin?” He scoffed and turned to Sirius. “I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

“My whole family has been in Slytherin,” said Sirius, unsmiling.

James regarded him, slack-jawed, his surprise exaggerated. “Blimey. And I thought you seemed all right!”

Sirius grinned. “Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?”

James lifted an invisible sword. “Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart! Like my dad.”

Snape made a small, disparaging noise.

James turned on him. “Got a problem with that?”

“No,” said Snape, though his slight sneer said otherwise. “If you’d rather be brawny than brainy—”

Sirius cut him off. “Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?”

James roared with laughter.

Lily stood up, face flushed, glaring between James and Sirius. “Come on, Severus, let’s find another compartment.”

“Ooh . . .” The two imitated her lofty voice; James tried to trip Snape as he passed.

“See ya, Snivellus!” called Sirius as the compartment door slammed.

The scene dissolved again.

Harry was standing right behind Snape as they faced the candlelit House tables, which were lined with rapt faces.

Professor McGonagall read off of a piece of parchment, “Evans, Lily!”

Harry’s mother walked forward, her legs trembling, and sat down upon the rickety stool. Professor McGonagall dropped the Sorting Hat onto her head, and barely a second after it had touched her head, the hat cried, “Gryffindor!”

Harry heard Snape let out a tiny groan.

Lily took off the hat, handed it back to Professor McGonagall, then hurried toward the cheering Gryffindors. As she went she glanced back at Snape, though, there was a sad little smile on her face. Sirius moved up the bench to make room for her, but upon recognizing him, she folded her arms and turned her back on him.

The roll call continued. Harry watched Remus, Peter Pettigrew, and his father join Lily and Sirius at the Gryffindor table. Finally, when only a dozen students remained to be sorted, Professor McGonagall called Snape.

Harry walked with him to the stool and watched him place the hat on his head.

“Slytherin!” cried the Sorting Hat.

And Snape moved off to the other side of the Hall, away from Lily, to where the Slytherins were cheering for him . . . 

The scene changed.

Snape and two other Slytherins sat on the floor of their dormitory, in the center of which was a bubbling cauldron flanked by an array of supplies. Judging by the darkness of the water outside of the windows, it must have been past midnight.

It took Harry a few minutes of watching and listening to their exchange to figure out they weren’t simply brewing potions. Next to them was a jar, its contents writhing with a mass of bugs. The boys were watching intently as one bug flung itself back and forth on a tray. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to have been turned inside out.

“This is getting boring,” said Mulciber. He reached for a small cage that contained a small creature—a mouse, furiously scurrying as though it knew its fate.

Mulciber opened the cage and levitated the mouse before it could escape.

“I want to do it!” said Avery, raising his wand.

The mouse writhed in the air, and Harry looked away before he saw what happened. Snape’s reaction matched the looks of pleasure on the faces of Avery and Mulciber, but after a few minutes passed, he excused himself to go to the bathroom, Harry in tow. _“Muffliato,”_ he managed to say, before retching into the toilet.

Pity and gratification mingled in Harry, as he wanted Snape’s child self to feel remorse for his cruelty but also had begun to understand what motivated Snape’s love for the Dark Arts.

It took a moment before he realized the implication of the word Snape had said. _Muffliato_. Before the memory faded completely, he bolted out of the bathroom, down the stairs to the dorm, and to the dorm, where he scanned the nightstands and piles of books for copies of _Advanced Potion-Making—_ there it was, lying among Snape’s things, open to the page called Common Ingredients. In the margins there were freshly inked notes, a sentence left unfinished, in the handwriting of the Half-Blood Prince.

It had been Snape all along. Snape who knew how to heal Malfoy in the bathroom, who knew he’d been getting help in Potions, whose spells the Marauders learned and used against him . . .

The scene dissolved.

Harry looked around the Three Broomsticks, which featured a half-hearted arrangement of pink and red decorations.

“Sort of sad, we’re both yet to have a date for Valentine’s Day.”

Severus nodded, a faint blush rising in his cheeks. “At least we have each other.”

“You’re right.”

Laughter preceded the Marauders, who entered at the other end of the restaurant, causing Lily and Severus to turn in their direction.

Severus met James’ glare with a sneer. “Odd that they don’t have dates, considering how many girls fawn over them. Quite _queer_ , I’d say.”

“Sev,” said Lily reflexively, as though his comments in this vein were a source of regular disagreement.

“It’s not normal, how close they are.”

From where Severus sat—alone, awkward, and frustrated—it was easy to disparage the Marauders for their togetherness, ease, and joy.

One moment Harry wished he had the same dynamic with Ron and Hermione, the next, he pitied Severus for not having anything close to that friendship. The Marauders had grown accustomed to draping themselves over each other and laughing until tears ran down their faces, with the caveat that their friendship appeared to be influenced by how others perceived them, on popularity and on reputation, which Harry—and Severus—could never be comfortable with.

“So how d’you prefer it, then, Severus? Sitting on opposite sides of Slytherin common room, glowering at each other and never smiling?”

Stung, Severus broke his stare from the group. “That’s not how it is.”

Lily pursed her lips, but didn’t argue. She noticed the couple nearby exchanging gifts and remembered herself. “I got you something. Think of it as a belated birthday gift as well, since I only gave you a card.”

Carefully, Severus accepted the globe, peering inside with a look of wonder. “This is our spot!”

Harry craned his neck to see the object. Inside the glass was a tiny willow tree.

“How did you make this?”

“You’re not the only one who invents spells, Sev.”

He smiled at her. “You’re an incredible witch, Lily.”

She flushed and averted her gaze; his smiles must be rare. “I’m not incredible at everything.”

“But you’re rather good at what matters.”

At this point, it was clear Severus had developed feelings beyond friendship, whether or not he was aware of them. He reached into his pocket and handed her what looked like a piece of beach glass, smooth and a dusty green. “This is for you. It’s a protective charm, it guards against certain hexes and minor curses. As long as it’s somewhere on your person, it should work.”

“Thank you, Sev. Though . . . why do you think I need it, though?”

“After school, I don’t know if you’ll be safe. And even here, I’m not always around if someone were to try something.” He glanced around, as if someone were already lurking around the corner, just out of sight.

“Maybe if you weren’t friends with Avery and Mulciber, they wouldn’t be powerful enough to do anything. Have you thought about that?”

“I told them to stay away. If I hadn’t—they know not to do anything to you.”

“What about everyone else? There are more than two blood purists in the school, let alone the wizarding world.”

“Everyone likes you, so they shouldn’t target you anyhow.”

Lily scoffed. “When you say things like that, Sev . . . you have to realize how much of a hypocrite you are!” She glanced at the table next to them, then smoothed her hair. “And here I thought we could have a pleasant afternoon in town without getting into a row.”

“I don’t want to upset you! We can talk about something else.” Genuine fear had crossed his features.

Harry found himself wishing he could tell Severus what he was doing wrong, wishing he could help him. Before he could think of anything, the scene dissolved.

The lake caught the sun’s rays, the bright light bringing the whole scene into focus. The Marauders, now likely a year older, had targeted Severus.

“Leave him alone,” Lily said, glaring at James. “What’s he done to you?”

“Well, it’s more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean . . .”

The crowd laughed along with the Marauders, but Lily didn’t so much as smile. “You think you’re funny. But you’re just an arrogant, bullying toerag, Potter. Leave him alone.”

“I will if you go out with me, Evans,” said James quickly. “Go on . . . go out with me and I’ll never lay a wand on old Snivelly again.”

“I wouldn’t go out with you if it was a choice between you and the giant squid,” said Lily. The people in the crowd oohed and snickered.

“Bad luck, Prongs.” Sirius sensed movement behind him and turned back to Snape. “Oi!”

But it was too late; Snape had directed his wand straight at James. There was a flash of light and a gash appeared on the side of James’s face, spattering his robes with blood. Was it Sectumsempra?

James whirled about. A second flash of light later, Snape was hanging upside-down in the air. His robes fell down over his head, revealing his ill-fitted, graying pants and his unnaturally white legs.

Amidst the cheers, the Marauders roared with laughter.

After a moment’s hesitation, Lily’s voice cut through the celebration. “Let him down!”

“Certainly,” said James and he jerked his wand upwards; Snape fell into a crumpled heap on the ground. Disentangling himself from his robes, he got quickly to his feet, wand up.

Before he could do anything, Sirius said, “ _Locomotor mortis!”_ and Snape keeled over again at once, rigid as a board.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” shouted Lily. She had her own wand out now. James and Sirius eyed it warily.

James tried more charm. “Ah, Evans, don’t make me hex you.”

“Take the curse off him, then!”

He sighed, then turned to Severus and muttered the counter-curse.

“There you go,” he said, as Severus struggled to his feet. “You’re lucky Evans was here, Snivellus—”

“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!” Snape spat.

A chill froze Harry’s body as he watched a feeling pass through Snape’s face, the feeling for which he had been searching for nearly a year: regret.

“Fine,” said Lily. “I won’t bother in the future. And I’d wash your pants if I were you, Snivellus.”

“Apologize to Evans!” James roared at Snape, his wand pointed threateningly at him.

“I don’t want you to make him apologize,” Lily shouted, rounding on James. “You’re as bad as he is.”

“What? I’d never call you a—you-know-what!”

“Messing up your hair because you think it looks cool to look like you’ve just got off your broomstick, showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can—I’m surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You make me sick.” She turned on her heel and hurried away.

“Evans!” James shouted after her. _“Hey, Evans!”_

But she didn’t look back.

“What is it with her?” James tried and failed to look as though the answer didn’t threaten to tear out his heart.

“Reading between the lines, I’d say she thinks you’re a bit conceited, mate,” said Sirius.

“Right,” said James, looking furious now, “right—” There was another flash of light, and Snape was once again hanging upside-down in the air. James surveyed his audience, who had broken out into murmurs. “Who wants to see me take off Snivelly’s pants?”

Cries of encouragement. If Snivellus hadn’t deserved the humiliation before, he certainly deserved it now.

James brandished his wand again, eyes wild, and the scene dissolved, reforming as the girl’s first floor lavatory.

Bright silver magic swirled around the tiled floor at Snape’s feet. He was surrounded by empty glass beakers and a various thick books, and by the state of him he must have been there a few hours already. With one hand, he pointed at the floor with his wand, and with the other, he held a roll of parchment from which he read the same phrase over and over: “ _Reversio Unodie, Mutatio Ponitet! Reversio Unodie, Mutatio Ponitet!”_

“Quit that racket, or I’ll scream!” cried Myrtle over his muttering, floating nearer.

Snape looked up at her, face shining with tears. “It’s not working.”

She sighed as she floated away. “Give up, it’s easier.”

Harry had asked Myrtle if she knew of anyone who tried to reverse time. He’d spoken with her how many times about the loop? What could he have possibly said differently to get her to realize—and then he knew. Everything hinged on one thing she had said, something he’d taken as frivolous: Myrtle claimed to only remember “the cute ones,” the boys she fancied with good enough looks to hold her attention. With no one around to judge him, though certain he wouldn’t have cared otherwise, Harry shouted a slew of curses profane enough to have earned him a year’s detention.

The bathroom dissolved.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not interested.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Save your breath.”

Lily, standing with her arms crossed in a dressing gown, stood in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. “I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here.”

“I was. I would have. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just—”

“Slipped out?” There was no pity in Lily’s voice. “It’s too late. I’ve made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends—you see, you don’t even deny it! You don’t even deny that’s what you’re all aiming to be! You can’t wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?”

Severus opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking.

“I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.”

“No—listen, I didn’t mean—”

“To call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth _Mudblood_ , Severus. Why should I be any different?”

Severus struggled on the verge of speech. With a contemptuous look Lily turned and climbed back through the portrait hole.

The scene dissolved into a new one, and Severus was in some sort of tunnel. A familiar tunnel—he was headed to the Shrieking Shack.

As they approached, distant bangs and thumps grew louder. Just as the tunnel grew taller and the door came into view, there were footsteps, and James appeared from under the cloak.

“Oi! Let’s get out of here!” James grabbed his arm. “It’s not safe, come on.”

“Potter, I should have known Black would tell you.” Severus raised his wand. “Get out of my way.”

Silently, Remus in wolf form crept closer behind him.

James grabbed Severus, threw him aside, and created a protective shield in front of Remus that forced him to slide backward into the shack.

_“Run! Get out of here, I’ll handle him! Go!”_

Severus didn’t have to be told twice. He scrambled back up the tunnel . . .

The scene dissolved into a dark corridor.

Severus, eyes wide with panic, perhaps a couple years older, looked around, but there was no one to witness his state. Severus’ breath overcame him, and he staggered down the corridor. _“Muffliato.”_

Now that no one could hear him, Snape found a shadowy corner and sobbed.

The voices of the Marauders approached, growing closer and closer. “Prongs, you have to slow down. Trust me, you want to enjoy it while it’s still new. Not that I doubt your ability to . . . innovate.”

Their laughter carried around the corner, but Severus seemed not to recognize the sound, which was broken up from bouncing off the walls. They appeared at the end of the corridor, and upon seeing them, Harry wished he could call out to warn Severus; Lily and James led the group, holding hands, grinning.

Just as they began to pass, Severus caught himself, shrinking back into the shadows, pressing himself against the wall. He drew his wand, straightened his shoulders, and took a deep, ragged breath.

“Whoa, Snivellus! The hell’s wrong with you?” James drew his wand, matching Severus’ stance.

Lily tugged on James’ arm. “Let’s just go. Come on.”

“Look at him, he’s pathetic!”

Sirius chimed in, now: “ _Sniveling_ in the dark, he must be so devastated now that you two are . . .” He made a motion with his hands to fill in the blank.

“Leave me alone, both of you, or I’ll—”

“Enough.” Lily looked at Severus, her expression betraying no remorse, then at James. “We should get back before curfew.”

“We have a few minutes to spare, haven’t we? Lily, go back to the room with Remus and Peter.”

“And leave you to do what? No! You’re being immature, and it’ll be better for everyone if you drop it.”

James hesitated, and with a final glare at Severus, followed her, the other Marauders in tow.

Then the scene took on a strange, pearly tone, as though everything was dimly illuminated from within. Harry recognized this at once as the distortion of an altered memory.

The Marauders had disappeared, leaving just Lily and Severus. Their voices started to overlap and repeat, becoming difficult to understand, their facial features blurred and movements odd, robotic.

“Sev, what’s wrong?” Lily reached for Severus as though moving through water.

Severus was shaking his head, “I love you.” His quick words echoed eerily around them.

“I had no idea . . .”

“What about James? Will you leave him for me?”

But before there was an answer, the scene abruptly dissolved.

Trelawney and Dumbledore sat in a dimly lit wood-paneled room that Harry didn’t recognize.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches . . . born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies . . . and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not . . . and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives . . . the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies . . .”

He had seen Trelawney recite the prophecy once before. Why hadn’t Dumbledore shown him the complete memory?

There was commotion outside the door before it flew open, and Aberforth stood gripping Severus’ shoulder.

“Ah—you see, I only desired insight into the art of Divination, I’m young but fairly experienced—nervous for the interview, is all—”

Her trance broken, Trelawney looked at Severus merely with annoyance, as she apparently had no idea what she had just said. “Come in hopes you’d ruin my chances?”

Severus shook his head furiously. “It was rude of me to eavesdrop, but I was worried about the competition—I’ll be going now.” He wormed out of Aberforth’s grasp and hurried out of sight.

When the scene dissolved, Harry felt as though he were flying, passing shapes and colors until his surroundings solidified again. He stood on a barren hilltop, forlorn in the darkness, the wind whistling through the branches of a few leafless trees. _Snape told Voldemort. He had my parents killed. And Dumbledore has known this entire time!_ He’d caught himself starting to call Snape by his first name, but after the man betrayed his parents, how could he?

Snape, now about twenty years old, turned on the spot as he gripped his wand tightly, waiting for something or someone. His fear infected Harry, who looked over his shoulder, too, wondering what Snape had come there for—

A blinding, jagged jet of white light flew through the air. Harry’s initial instinct was that lightning had struck the hill, but Snape had dropped to his knees, disarmed.

“Don’t kill me!”

“That was not my intention.”

Any sound of Dumbledore Apparating had been drowned by the sound of the wind in the branches. He stood before Snape with his robes whipping around him, face lit from below in the light cast by his wand. “Well, Severus? What message does Lord Voldemort have for me?”

“N-no message—I’m here on my own account!” Snape was wringing his hands. He looked mad, his black hair flying around him, dark eyes huge in his pale face. “I-I come with a warning—no, a request—please—”

Dumbledore flicked his wand. Though leaves and branches still flew through the night air around them, silence fell on the spot where he and Snape faced each other.

“What request could a Death Eater make of me?”

“The—the prophecy . . . the prediction . . . Trelawney . . .”

“Ah, yes.” Dumbledore’s tone was bitter, sharp. “How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?”

“Everything—everything I heard! That is why—it is for that reason—he thinks it means Lily Evans!”

“The prophecy did not refer to a woman,” said Dumbledore. “It spoke of a boy born at the end of July—”

“You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son, he is going to hunt her down—kill them all—”

“If she means so much to you, surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?”

“I have—I have asked him—”

“You disgust me,” said Dumbledore, and Harry had never heard so much contempt in his voice. Snape shrunk back a little as he continued, “You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die, as long as you have what you want?”

Snape said nothing, looking up at Dumbledore. “Hide them all, then. Keep her—them—safe. Please.”

“And what will you give me in return, Severus?”

“In—in return?” Snape gaped at Dumbledore, and Harry expected him to protest, but after a long moment he said, “Anything.”

The scene dissolved, and now Harry stood in Dumbledore’s office.

Something was making a terrible sound, like a wounded animal. Snape had slumped forward in a chair as Dumbledore stood over him, looking grim. After a moment or two, Snape raised his head, looking like he had lived a hundred years of misery since leaving the storm-stricken hilltop.

“I thought you were going to keep her safe . . .”

“She and James put their faith in the wrong person,” said Dumbledore. “Rather like you, Severus. Weren’t you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?”

Snape’s breath escaped him in short bursts, and he clutched his chest.

Dumbledore looked at him. “Her boy survives.”

Snape’s expression flickered, breathing abruptly still.

“Her son lives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and color of Lily Evans’ eyes, I am sure?”

_“Don’t!_ Gone—dead . . .”

“Is this remorse, Severus?”

“I wish . . . I wish I were dead . . .”

“And what use would that be to anyone?” Dumbledore’s voice was surprisingly sharp. “If you loved Lily Evans, if you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear.”

Snape seemed to see through a haze of pain, and Dumbledore’s words took a long time to reach him. “What—what do you mean?”

“You know how and why she died. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily’s son.”

“He does not need protection. The Dark Lord has gone—”

“The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does.”

There was a long pause, and slowly Snape managed to get a grip. “Very well. Very well. But never—never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear . . . especially Potter’s son . . . I want your word!”

Dumbledore sighed, looking down into Snape’s anguished face. “My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you? If you insist . . .”

“The best of me? No, the worst of me. I will never live a day without regretting what I have done.”

“I understand.” Snape took no notice of the flash of pain in Dumbledore’s eyes. “Then you are condemned to suffer without sympathy.”

The scene dissolved.

“Potter, where are you going?”

Harry recognized the scene; he was a second-year, expressive and round-faced, his features beginning to wrinkle with dislike. Had he always been so transparent? Snape too looked much younger than he would four years later, after Voldemort’s return had taken a toll on them all.

“There are tubeworms stuck to your desk,” continued Snape, not looking up from his papers.

Harry watched his younger self grit his teeth in frustration. “They were there before our class, sir.”

Snape looked up, sneering. “So you failed to properly sanitize your desk before you began your classwork?”

Younger Harry struggled to think of a response, which was for the best; had he protested further, Snape would surely have boiled over.

“Once you have finished that desk, clean the others.”

It was a miserable task, scraping off tubeworms, and a familiar feeling of injustice bubbled inside Harry as he watched his younger self. He tried to imagine himself as his father, as Snape saw him. It was easy to do; his nose a touch shorter than James’, hair (he wouldn’t have believed it possible) less wild, skin a shade or two lighter, but otherwise the resemblance was striking. With enough time to forget the differences, they may as well have been identical.

After Harry had finished his task and hurried out, Snape sighed and rubbed his temple, eyes closed.

There was a knock on the door, and Professor McGonagall entered the room. Snape straightened in his chair, making to stand, but McGonagall waved him down. “This will be brief. I wanted to ask if you have any reason to think Potter is responsible for opening the Chamber of Secrets. If your attitude toward him the other night was founded in any knowledge you have.”

Snape shook his head. “He did not open the Chamber on purpose.”

“Then on accident . . . ?”

“It is unlikely.” He glanced at the door behind her. “We should ensure this conversation is private . . .”

At once, McGonagall waved her wand and the door shut, completely without a sound.

“The other professors must remain ignorant, of course. But the slim possibility is Harry’s connection with the Dark Lord would allow him to open the Chamber.”

“Connection? What connection would there be?”

Snape made a gesture close to a shrug, which punctuated the difference in their age. “It may be nothing. Given his ability to speak to snakes, however, as the Dark Lord could, it must exist in a small way, at the very least . . .”

The scene dissolved.

Harry watched himself fall, quickly, through the fog—and Dumbledore hurried onto the Quidditch pitch, waving his wand to slow him as he fell, scaring off the dementors . . . Severus had gotten up as well, drawing his wand. Before anyone else could react, his third-year self hit the ground. Of course, Harry knew the fall had slowed enough that he wasn’t injured, but the panic in the stands was infectious.

Severus strode onto the pitch, robes billowing in the wind, hair plastered from the rain. It was clear that the worst had occurred to the crowd—and perhaps Severus himself—that Harry could be dead. The shouts from the crowd swept through Harry, making it difficult to focus on any one thing; but the professors who helped Dumbledore banish the dementors maintained their senses.

“He’s alive,” said Madam Hooch, her fingers on Harry’s pulse.

Madam Pomfrey hurried onto the field alongside Dumbledore and magicked Harry onto a stretcher. She levitated him up to the castle as Dumbledore told everyone else to fall back, instructing a panicked Hagrid to manage the crowd.

Harry stared at his seemingly lifeless body, the arms dangling over the side of the stretcher, the soaked hair plastered to his young face. He wasn’t sure what to feel: should he revel in the emotions of his friends, their faces a reassurance of how much they cared, or cringe at the embarrassment of his helpless appearance? He looked back at Severus, who was staring at the body of his younger self, expressionless, pace slowing as they reached the castle.

Rather than following the group of professors to the Hospital Wing, though, Severus broke off and slipped into an empty classroom nearby.

Once alone, Severus breathed in sharply and exhaled, a shuddering, ugly sound. He covered his face with his hands for a minute as his breathing steadied, and when he revealed his face, there was no evidence that he had cracked. He swept out of the room and strode back into the Hospital Wing. Professor McGonagall was speaking in low tones to Dumbledore, stopping when she saw Severus. She nodded to him, then left.

“I have ordered the dementors off the grounds and contacted the Ministry of Magic to better control the blasted creatures,” Dumbledore informed him without preamble.

“Potter should not continue playing Quidditch if it needlessly puts his life on the line.”

“And take away the one thing that makes him feel normal?”

“I would argue it merely inflates his ego.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore cut in sharply, “There is no need for your pretense here.”

Severus’ frown deepened. “I only meant that surely the sport is not worth these brushes with death.”

“There are many more serious risks that Harry will encounter. This incident will pale in comparison to what he may face in the future.” At Severus’ wince, he added, “You know as well as I that prevention is of little use. With Quidditch gone, he would only become more reckless. Boredom can be destructive . . .”

Severus grunted, wishing neither to affirm this nor continue arguing.

“I protected him this time, Severus. However, I would hope that if I was not there, you would step in. Or did a part of you hope he would fall to his death?”

“How could you—” Severus kept his voice steady. “Do you really think I would willfully undo my efforts from over the past twelve years?” For only a moment, his eyes passed over the hospital bed where Harry lay. “I will be quicker next time, Albus. You can be certain of that.”

Harry left the memories with a gasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter illustration image description: The illustration is in a sketched style. Two faces in profile are composed out of squiggles: above to the right, Snape; below to the left, Lily. The squiggles are looser in the gaps between the pair and the frame of the image, and get more dense and erratic as they form the hair, neck, nose, and other features of Snape and Lily.] If you have a visual impairment, I welcome any feedback about the chapter illustration descriptions so far! It'd be no trouble at all for me to tweak them as necessary and would be helpful moving forward. Thank you!
> 
> And thank you all for reading, giving kudos, and commenting! This fic has been in the works for nearly three years now (to be clear, it still is) and so far being able to share it has made it all worthwhile.


	15. The Resurrection Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one more person with a secret past, but not the last hidden fate that Harry will discover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I did not expect to take a month to get this next chapter up! Thank you for your patience. Per usual, the chapter illustration image description is in the end notes of the chapter.

 

Snape was the reason his parents were dead. The reason Sirius went to prison. And yet . . . without Snape’s protection, he would’ve likely been killed. Snape was the reason Voldemort would eventually lose.

When faced with the choice to potentially forgive Draco for his actions over the years, Harry had struggled with whether it was enough for the boy to simply want to be better. Even if he decided it was indeed enough for Draco, by comparison, Snape had spent twenty more years being cruel; the same logic could hardly apply.

Snape was hated by most students, admired only by the Slytherins whom he gave special treatment. The question was, to what extent had he chosen to be a miserable, unlikeable person, despite everything that had happened in his life? And what was more important, the quiet sacrifices he made to protect students, or the outward way he treated them on a daily basis?

Harry’s strongest feeling was pity from knowing how lonely and self-destructive it must be to lead two opposing lives. Both Snape and Draco were skilled at Occlumency, but that seemed to be because of an ability to compartmentalize, to favor self-sacrificing over joy and compassion. His pity for them was mingled with anger, disgust, and hope, which were all constantly shifting in scope.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had been abandoned by his parents and rejected love to seek glory. Severus Snape had been abused by his father and sought redemption in the memory of love. Harry had been neglected by his aunt and uncle and sought love over the promise of fame and wealth.

Draco and Snape had feelings for a Gryffindor and lashed out against them; Harry and Snape both hurt the person they weren’t aware they had feelings for, which altered their lives forever; Snape created the time curse and—as the Half-Blood Prince—the spell that Harry cast against Draco.

Snape had only said why he created the curse, not how to end it. There was still no obvious reason it would have continued longer than a day, which was all it had taken for Harry to avoid casting Sectumsempra. If the time loop had worked for Snape and one day reversed, he wouldn’t have called Lily a Mudblood.

What would Snape have done with more time? In six months or more, maybe he would have renounced Voldemort. In a year, his entire worldview would have changed significantly.

Or not. Whatever happened to Severus in his past, however terrible his home life had been, whatever had driven him to crave power and dominance, it had to be so deep-rooted that only tragedy could have changed his motivations. Harry hoped Draco’s fear for his father’s life could change his path, that the power he wanted could be fulfilled in some other way other than advocating for blood purity, let alone supporting Voldemort.

“You’re starting to see how it’s all connected, then?” asked Luna, after he relayed most of his scattered thoughts to her the next day.

“I think so. Thank you, I know I haven’t been coherent.” Harry dropped his head into his hands. “You’ve always been able to help me. You were the first person I wanted to talk to.”

Luna lightly patted his back and said, “I wish I could remember everything. We’ve become great friends, haven’t we?”

Face still concealed, Harry replied, “Yeah. Weird, isn’t it? I mean, it’s weird that I remember and you don’t.”

“What if the time loop ended and suddenly everyone could remember everything?”

Harry was so shocked by this idea he nearly toppled over in his chair. “D’you think that could . . . ?”

“Hm, though if that were the case, why did Professor Snape try to reset time in the first place? It’s more likely that this entire thing has been taking place inside your head, and you’re in St. Mungo’s.”

He laughed, even though her theories terrified him. “Do you ever feel you want the opposite things at the same time?”

“Maybe they’re not as opposite as they seem.”

“Maybe.”

“Harry, you should ask Snape about how to end the time loop. It may be the only way.”

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll get around to it.”

Harry dreaded facing Snape again. As he processed what he’d learned, he was more prepared to confront Dumbledore about his reasons for keeping Snape’s motivations secret, so he went first to the Headmaster’s Tower. When he arrived, Dumbledore had not yet returned to his office—there were about twenty minutes of variation between when he was in his office in the afternoon.

Without thinking about what he was doing, Harry went to the cabinet of memories and peered more closely at some of the labels, but the handwriting took him too long to decipher. He tried to open another cabinet, which was locked. He tried a couple more, without any luck, but found the top drawer of Dumbledore’s desk unlocked. In it was Marvolo Gaunt’s ring, which rolled to the front of the drawer when Harry pulled it open.

He carefully picked up the crudely constructed ring. Was this small thing really so important that it was worth killing for? Immortality for the cost of human life—

Harry looked up. Cedric Diggory stood on the other side of the room, staring at him.

“Cedric! What are you—how . . . ?” Cedric was just as handsome as he had been before he died, and apart from his translucency, looked just as he did before he was killed. “Did the ring do this?”

“The stone in that ring is a tether, I think, to the world of the living.”

“Are you a ghost? Oh god, will you be like this forever?”

“Only as long as you’re holding that stone. You can tell me to stay or to leave, and I will.”

Harry crossed the room to him, everything he had felt since fourth year flooding back. “I’m so sorry, Cedric. It isn’t fair, what happened to you. If I hadn’t forced you to come with me, or if I’d only figured out it was a trap, you’d still be alive.”

“Only Voldemort and his supporters are to blame, Harry. If you hadn’t stopped Voldemort as a baby, he would have killed even more people then.”

“I can’t take credit for that. I just got lucky, which is why your death . . .”

“My death is not your fault,” finished Cedric.

“Hang on, do you know everything that’s happened since you . . . ?”  
“Some of it. Whomever I cared about the most while I was alive, I know the most about.”

“So there’s an afterlife?”

Cedric’s smile faltered. “I only know about the living. Maybe there’s something more . . . I can’t remember. This is the warmest I’ve felt in a long time . . . Most people never leave here . . .”

Shivers crept up Harry’s back. “Do you know I’m trapped?”

“How do you mean?”

“Trapped in time.”

“Hm. This is the first time you’ve called me here?”

“Yeah. Maybe in the afterlife, time works differently.” He breathed in, and then slowly breathed out. “You should be alive now. Your family and friends didn’t deserve it, and I’m trying to make it right for you, for everyone who cared about you. I wish we’d—we could’ve been friends.”

“Me too.”

Almost against his own will, Harry blurted, “I think I fancied you.”

“What? Er, I’m not . . .”

“No, no, I know.” Harry wanted to take back the shock in Cedric’s features. “I mean, I assumed. I’ve found out about who a good number of people are, who they like and I didn’t think . . . I didn’t expect anything.”

“How did you find out about these people?”

“Noticed things. Overheard conversations . . .”

“Conversations that people intended to be kept to themselves, you realize. Do you know about Cho?”

“What do you mean?”

Cedric shook his head. “It’s not your place to dig into other people’s business.”

Harry held his tongue, because part of him knew it was true that he had crossed lines that should not have. Despite his shame, he wanted to know what Cedric knew about Cho that he didn’t.

“Will you let her know I love her? And I hope she can find joy and meaning in her life. She deserves happiness.”

“Now that you’re here, you can tell her yourself! I can go get her . . .”

“No. No, that would be too hard on her. It’s best—an even cut. Besides, she wouldn’t remember.” His tone softened. “Out of everyone you lost, you summoned me here.”

“Out of everyone, I wanted you to know we’re close to defeating Voldemort.”

Cedric smiled. “You’re brilliant, Harry. Take care of yourself, will you? If anyone gives you a hard time about who you are, just—you have to really think about whether you want them in your life. There are plenty of people around, you know, who will accept all of you, not just the parts of you that are convenient, easy to like.”

Through Cedric’s body, he saw Dumbledore, and in his shock, he dropped the stone, causing the figure to disappear.

“You should have asked permission,” he said, bending to collect the ring and returning it to the drawer, which he appeared to magically seal.

“I’m sorry.” Harry cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “I only—I wanted to see the ring again.”

The cabinet filled with memories was still ajar from when Harry had been peering more closely at some of the labels. As soon as he glanced at it, Dumbledore did the same.

“Did you use the Pensieve?”

“No, I didn’t. I was just looking around.”

“Can you swear you have not viewed anything?”

“No. I mean, yes, I can swear.” Harry rarely saw Dumbledore appear this close to anger.

“I would appreciate if you left my office. We can discuss the Horcruxes tomorrow if need be.”

This interaction with Dumbledore made him think the Headmaster was hiding something important. Despite Cedric’s warning that he ought to mind his business, the mystery allured him.

The vials in the cabinet were organized with tiny coded labels that obscured the date and subject matter they contained. Oddly, a few were unmarked. Choosing a memory that lacked a date among an otherwise meticulously organized section, he poured it into the Pensieve and lowered his head.

Harry appeared in a field. He surveyed the area; behind him was a group of homes that were magical judging by the physics-defying architecture. Harry spotted two boys farther down the field, past a grassy slope, and headed in their direction.

The boys were probably eighteen years old and lay side by side on a large blanket, books piled around them like the walls of a fort. Just before Harry managed to get a closer look, sparks shot up into the air from the boys’ wands. Instinctively, Harry stepped back, relaxing as he realized they were practicing wandless magic.

The pieces came together at once; the smirk, the bright eyes, old-fashioned clothing . . . it was Dumbledore. He was much younger, but it was him. Harry didn’t recognize the other boy, though he glowed with a confidence that made Harry think he should know him. He was blond and arrestingly handsome.

As Harry finished assessing the two, Dumbledore leaned over and kissed the other boy.

A hot wash of embarrassment flooded through Harry. Still, he was unable to pull his eyes away.

“Ah.” The other boy averted his gaze. “I thought you might have feelings for me.” He sat up.

Dumbledore studied him, waiting. Harry found himself holding his breath, too.

The boy turned so he was facing Dumbledore, then reached over and brushed the hair out of Dumbledore’s eyes. “You are intelligent, incredibly gifted, and your companionship has been very important to me. Only—only I cannot return your feelings. I care for you deeply; I love you, but not in the way you love me.”

Dumbledore sat up, eyes shining. “I see. I supposed, maybe, since you never expressed interest in women, that you might feel the same way. I’m sorry, Gellert, I—”

“There is no need to apologize,” said the boy Gellert, sighing, as though annoyed. “I’m flattered. So you know, if I were not so invested in our mission, I may well be interested in women. But romance is a distraction from the larger mission. Friendship is not harmful—in fact, it is helpful—but romantic love is a weakness, you see.”

“I agree.” As Dumbledore averted his gaze, the scene sped away, and Harry lifted his face out of the water.

When he turned around, he found the now much older Dumbledore in the doorway, staring at him, eyes sharp. “Harry. What are you doing here?”

Harry’s heart pounded, and it took him a second to think of an excuse. “I, er, I came to talk to you about something. To check your Time-Turner.”

Dumbledore looked at him strangely, but crossed to the cabinet containing his Time-Turner and opened it. He glanced up, eyebrow raised. “I presume you know what this means?”

“That time is frozen. I know, I’ve been living the same day over and over for months. So I came to look in the Pensieve, to see if there’s anything I could find out.”

“I am sorry, Harry. No doubt I have expressed that before. But looking in my private memory stores—Voldemort could access your mind, find out what I have tried to keep secret for good reason—”

“I have nothing else to do! You told me to find out about the Horcruxes, and I have! But there’s no use in explaining that now. I just want you to tell me what the memory I saw means. You were, er, with a boy.”

A shadow passed over Dumbledore’s face. “Show me the vial.”

As Dumbledore rushed to see what the memory was, Harry said, a bit panicked, “I-it’s okay, sir. I’m not . . . it’s not unnatural to me.”

Dumbledore read the label and looked back at Harry. He looked older than Harry had ever seen him, the lines on his face carving valleys in his skin. “I was a boy. A foolish, misguided boy, Harry.”

Harry blinked, confused. Was Dumbledore referring to the fact that he had fancied a bloke, or something else?

“Are you aware of who Grindelwald is?”

“The name’s familiar.”

Dumbledore slowly returned to his desk, sitting down with a sigh. “When I first became Headmaster, I instructed Professor Binns to teach about the Global Wizarding War without focusing on the man responsible for it. There are parts of my life I have kept private, and for many reasons. If the Ministry learned of my past, they could weaponize it against me. It is also too shameful to dwell on, let alone speak about. I fear your opinion of me will be irreparably changed, almost more than I fear Voldemort will somehow access your mind and my past.”

“Sir, I’m sure you have an explanation for whatever you did in your past. And as for the second thing . . . I’m better at Occlumency than I was before, and there’s a chance we’ll be able to take down Voldemort before he can find anything out.”

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. “In that case, I will share with you what I can. That boy . . . was Gellert Grindelwald.”

“What? Didn’t you say he started a massive war?” Harry stopped talking because he saw Dumbledore already regretted having said anything.

“As a young man, I had feelings for Grindelwald, as you saw, and was more inclined to his ideals because I thought it would allow us to be together. After what you witnessed in the memory, we grew apart and I overcame my emotions.”

“And . . . ?”

“That is all.”

“If I went through your other memories, I wouldn’t find anything more?”

Frustration flickered in Dumbledore’s face. “I must ask you to respect my privacy.”

“Well, you won’t remember I’ve done it before. Besides, I would prefer to hear it from you. And I’d much rather you explain now or else I’ll have no choice but to jump to conclusions—”

Dumbledore held up a hand. “If I tell you more, I may expedite the end of the time loop. But I advise you, Harry, to not become accustomed to manipulating others, or you may in fact leave the time loop at a greater disadvantage than when you entered it.”

A familiar shudder passed through Harry, the feeling he had whenever something outside the realm of his expectation occurred.

“I grew up in Mould-on-the-Wold with my two siblings, whom I loved dearly: my younger sister, Ariana, and my younger brother, Aberforth.” He hesitated, took his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes. Speaking more to himself, he said, “By telling you this, I am saving you from hearing this in the words of another.” He put his glasses back on.

“When my sister was six, three Muggle boys assaulted her. After the attack, she was no longer able to control her powers. My father flew into a rage and attacked the boys. He went to Azkaban for what he had done, and would die there not too long after.”

“I’m so sorry . . .”

“Thank you, Harry, but I must say my story will worsen before it improves. To avoid the judgment of the wizarding community, we moved to Godric’s Hollow, the same village in which your parents would eventually live. My mother was left to raise Ariana when Aberforth and I were in school. The only details I have to impart to you about my school days are that they provided me more freedom than I had at home, and I excelled in my studies.

“After leaving Hogwarts, I planned to travel with my friend Elphias Doge. Before we left London, I received word that my mother had died, killed by one of Ariana’s outbursts. I returned home to take care of Ariana and Aberforth, almost against my will, so I resented them and was bitter about the state of my life.

“A boy my age, Gellert Grindelwald, had moved in with another resident of Godric’s Hollow, Bathilda Bagshot. We quickly became friends. Both of our magical abilities were unusually powerful, and our personalities complemented each other; I the passionate, quietly self-assured type, he the driven, charming type. He was unlike anyone I knew at Hogwarts, and it was natural that we should become fast friends. Indeed, our friendship ultimately developed into something deeper.

“I believed, misguidedly, that the wizarding world deserved to rule over Muggles, that it was our birthright. Grindelwald and I had plans to subjugate the Muggles, to create a society in which wizards ruled.” Dumbledore paused for a long time, gazing across the room at the Pensieve. “I cannot absolve myself of responsibility and say he seduced me, or that I did not truly have faith in the principles we created. For two months of my boyhood, I devoted my time to the study of power and how to obtain it.”

“Why?” There was nothing else Harry could think of to ask.

“I wanted glory. We were able to justify ourselves, so we thought. At that time, nearly 1900, Western European Muggle countries were colonizing the rest of the world, abusing entire peoples, and were not as technologically advanced as they are today—”

“But you would’ve colonized the Muggle world!”

“We did not see it as a colonizing mission, although now it is clear that is an apt characterization.” Dumbledore fixed his gaze on Harry, then took a breath. “While at the time I already had many awards to my name, I was only seventeen years old. I found myself at the crossroads of who I would be for the rest of my life. I argued that our control was ‘for the greater good,’ but that was merely an excuse. It was never about the world, it was about our own selfish desires.”

Harry felt his entire body tense up, as though clinging to the space around him. Dumbledore seemed pitiful, insignificant, ordinary. Harry had looked up to Dumbledore, had expected him to be a guide, to be _right_ —how could he expect that now?

“You must understand, Harry, that the ideology Grindelwald and I shared developed at a time I felt most fragile. My mother had died, I was expected to take care of my siblings, and I had begun to learn for the first time of the Ministry’s laws governing homosexuality. The world, I thought, had treated me unfairly and I felt as though I no longer had control over my life.”

Harry nodded numbly. He wanted to understand—he had understood Snape and Draco, after all—but couldn’t bring himself to do so.

“Of course, once Ariana was killed, I renounced the Dark Arts.”

“Like Snape?”

Dumbledore was roused from his solemnity. “Have you learned of his reasons for changing sides?”

“Yeah, he told Voldemort about the prophecy and then tried to save my mum. Is that why you trusted him? Because you could relate?”

“You may be right. I believed for some people, change is possible. Severus was young, only a few years older than you, and I could sense his conviction. Love is a powerful force, Harry. Ultimately, it won over my hate. If Grindelwald and Voldemort had the capacity for love, they would not have followed the dark path they chose. It was the death of a loved one that changed our hearts and minds.”

Harry new he could overstep his bounds at any point, but felt confident enough to venture another question. “Sir, how did your sister die?” The air seemed to cool around the desk, and goosebumps rose on his arms.

“It was my fault. It was—a spell I cast in a battle between Grindelwald, Aberforth, and I—it struck her, accidentally—she died—and after that—I could not forgive Grindelwald.”

Harry’s sympathy for Dumbledore’s despair overwhelmed any judgment and shock he might have felt.

“We dueled again, later in life. Grindelwald had become the most dangerous wizard of all time, some would say. He had raised an army, built a prison he named Nurmengard, murdered many people. I waited so long to face him because . . . I believed he knew which one of us killed Ariana, and that knowledge, combined with the memory of the duel itself . . . Once again, I was selfish.

“When we faced each other again, I won. Peace returned, and the shame of my past faded. Since his imprisonment, I have not seen him.” He touched the injured part of his hand, lost in thought.

“Sir, why Grindelwald, of all people? I mean, I know you regret it, or whatever, but what about afterwards?”

Dumbledore’s frown deepened. “Youthful delusion. Uncommon intellect met fellow uncommon intellect. In the years since, I have chosen not to let my feelings for another individual blind me again. Perhaps for that I am a coward, but after becoming used to this way of life, it is not as lonely as it may seem.”

Harry considered this, but was too caught up in what he wanted to confess for it to sink in. “Sir, I-I have feelings for someone I think I shouldn’t, and I don’t know how I should feel. It could be like you and Grindelwald.”

Dumbledore studied Harry. “Any time you fall in love, your feelings are the result of a combination of who you are at that moment, what you want in life, and any previous experience you have had with love. I have told you—or at least suggested—how these things led me to develop feelings for Grindelwald. I cannot give you the answer, it is something you must discover for yourself.”

A chance to tell Dumbledore about Draco after he confessed to Harry about his own past love might not come again. “Sir, if I tell you who it is—will you at least give me some direction?” When Dumbledore nodded, Harry said, “Draco Malfoy. And I know he’s trying to kill you, and that he’s a Death Eater.”

“As do I.” Dumbledore’s expression was that of pity, though at first Harry took it as disappointment. He could tell the man was comparing their situations. “I do not think Draco has close to the capacity for evil that Grindelwald has. He is cowardly, perhaps, but not irredeemable, and is immature enough in his youth to change. I have never felt certain that the prejudice his parents have taught him would last into adulthood. Hatred is a convenient tool for him, a privilege. Perhaps he and my younger self have more in common than him and Grindelwald.”

Harry exhaled, breath shaking. He hadn’t realized until that moment that he deeply cared what Dumbledore thought, perhaps more than anyone else.

“However, I would advise you to be careful. You should not commit your feelings to him until he has changed. Like his father after the first war, he could merely change sides for his personal benefit.” Dumbledore hesitated. “Is he capable of returning your affections?”

“He fancies me, if that’s what you mean. Dunno if he’d want to . . . well, I found that out, but it’s tied up with a lot of other sh—stuff.”

“Be certain, if he should tell you he feels the same way, that it is for the right reasons. You have a tendency to run headfirst into new situations, so attempt to self-reflect.”

“Mhm.”

Dumbledore studied Harry. “There are two other memories I would like you to see, in the hopes that they may help you. As long as you promise not to search in my memories again.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

“You should also know that it is painful to share these things with you, and I can only tolerate my shame by knowing I will forget having told you.”

“Right.” Harry was nervous now as he followed Dumbledore to the Pensieve. The Headmaster retrieved two vials from the cabinet and poured them into the water, then motioned for Harry to step forward.

Harry dove in once more. The scene that appeared to him must have been in Dumbledore’s home, in a small room with a sloped ceiling. Every available space was crowded with artifacts or piles of books and papers.

Dumbledore reclined on his bed, reading. He looked the same as in the previous memory, though perhaps more unkempt. At a tap from the window, he looked up, grinning instantly.

“I knew you would be awake,” said Grindelwald as he pushed the window all the way up.

Dumbledore shut his book and helped Grindelwald inside. “You flew up, I imagine?”

“Yes.” Gellert smiled, illuminating his handsome features. “So far, I am only able to get in the air if I jump. Give me another few weeks and I will have mastered it.”

“You make it seem easy.”

“Surely it is easier than domination over all Muggles, though.”

Dumbledore laughed, sending hot currents of anger through Harry. Was he this blinded by love?

Dumbledore ran a hand through his auburn hair, still watching Grindelwald, who removed his coat and sat down on the edge of Dumbledore’s bed. There was an obvious awkwardness between them.

“More and more, you have kept your distance from me since the other night,” said Grindelwald, studying Dumbledore, who kept his gaze fixed out the window.

“I know. It will likely be a few more weeks before I can return to how I used to be.”

“That will not be possible. You and I are driven by passion.” Gellert reached for Albus’ hand and clasped it firmly. “I know you, Albus. You have the ability to create strength from your affection, where I cannot. You can maintain your rationality and sensibility, the latter of which could be my downfall.” He brought Albus’ hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles.

The hairs on Harry’s arms stood up instinctively. Was he feeling . . . apprehension? Transfixion? Desire? Their interaction was off. They both wanted something from the other, something that could be written off as solely romantic at first glance.

“I am unsure of how much I can give you now.” Gellert turned fully around so that he faced Albus, both of their hands clasped. “That is only before our revolution, however.” He placed a hand on Albus’ face now, thumb running over his jawline. “We shall be unstoppable together.”

Albus shivered at this, then wrapped his arms around Gellert. “That is what I want most.”

Harry watched the scene slip away from him.

Dumbledore sat at a desk in a different room, perhaps in his friend’s home, writing on a long piece of parchment.

Grindelwald entered the room, holding two steaming cups, one of which he set down in front of Dumbledore. He placed his free hand on his friend’s shoulder, peering to see what he was working on.

“Oh,” he purred, setting down his cup, hands free to settle across Dumbledore’s chest as he rested his chin on his head. “You have been working so diligently on our manifesto.”

Harry moved to get a better view of Dumbledore’s face, which brightened with pride. “It is necessary for us to explain the core reasons for the inferiority of Mugglekind if we wish to convince others to join our cause.”

“You have hardly slept in the past few weeks, and it is beginning to affect your mental faculties. I can find . . . two words you have misspelled on this page alone.”

“It is only a draft. You told me it was important we finish this by the end of the month, and—”

“Albus.” Grindelwald’s hand clasped over his mouth. “You can continue working, if you manage to relax.” When Dumbledore nodded, Grindelwald ran his fingers across his cheek, into his hair. “Have you written anything about their religious wars?”

“That is next, I am writing about their diseases now.” Albus shivered as Gellert ran his fingers down his back.

“Read it to me.”

Albus set his quill down and held up his writing. “‘Without magic, Muggles live in filthy, uninhabitable squalor. Slowly, they have developed technology to circumvent their evolutionary deficits, but despite improvements, they suffer from ailments that kill them at alarming rates. An elderly Muggle can sneeze one day, only to be buried in the ground the next. Their most beloved cities flow with their waste, and the smoke from their factories pollutes the air.’” He faltered as Gellert leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “‘Th-their problems reflect a pattern at the heart of Muggle society, in which any so-called _advancements_ lead to larger, more lethal problems.’”

“Good.” To Harry, Gellert’s motions were serpentine, his whispers like the venomous hiss of a cobra. At least, he thought this until Gellert took Albus’ face in his hands and looked at him with an affection that was so open and warm it had to come from a place of real sentiment. “You remind me why I believe in our cause.”

The scene dissolved just before they kissed, and Harry lifted his face out of the Pensieve. He found himself unable to meet Dumbledore’s eye. “Sir, why did you show me those memories? I already knew about you and Grindelwald.”

“Was there anything that unnerved you about our interactions?”

“Well, Grindelwald couldn’t feel the same way, right? I wasn’t sure if he—or you—thought he’d change his mind.”

“There was a time when he loved me as I loved him. However, his love came with a price. He was the type to give affection when he had something to gain from our collaboration. Although I convinced myself it was unintentional at the time, Grindelwald withheld things from me when he wished to punish me, or bring me to his point of view. When I did something of which he approved, he rewarded me. His greed and self-absorption ultimately destroyed our relationship and only escalated as bested him as he tore the continent apart.”

“So . . . you’re saying . . . Draco is taking advantage of me like Grindelwald took advantage of you. But he has no idea I’m helping him!”

“That is true, for now. However, once the time loop ends and he learns what you have done for him and why, he may come to the conclusion that the way to get what he wants is to unfairly use your affection to his benefit, as he has with his friends and his parents. I know there is not the same capacity for evil in Draco as there was in Grindelwald. I simply wish to caution you against a relationship in which Draco only takes and you only give. A relationship in which you symbolize something he desires, as I symbolized Muggle domination and power to Grindelwald.”

After his conversation with Dumbledore, Harry kept flipping between irritation and doubt. While he was irritated, he thought Dumbledore was a hypocrite, an ignorant part of the time loop. When he was in doubt, he saw the flickers of Draco’s desire for him transfigure into ugly attempts at finding a savior.

Maybe he wouldn’t tell Draco how he defeated Voldemort, or what became part of his motivation. Except, if there was any hope of them being together, the circumstances of the past several months were too significant to keep from Draco.

He had two choices: try being with him or don’t try. Or rather: instead of presuming what may be impossible anyhow, to tell him how he felt or not tell him. As he struggled to fall asleep, wrought with worry, he decided he had nothing to lose. After all, the greatest obstacle to his happiness was Voldemort. This was trivial. If he didn’t fight for the chance at having love in whatever form it may take, what reason had he to fight?

Even if there was a chance Draco would use him, Harry had already done the same. There was one final way he wanted to appropriate him for his own ends: for the first time since the loop began (he estimated the beginning to be a year ago now), Harry took Polyjuice Potion to become Draco.

Before any Slytherins woke one morning, he snuck into Snape’s office. Using Snape’s store of Floo Powder, he put his head in the fireplace and said, “Malfoy Manor.”

After a few minutes staring into an empty room, he heard footsteps and Narcissa Malfoy entered. Her pace quickened when she saw who was in the fire.

“Hello, Mother. It’s good to see you.”

“Draco.” She hesitated, eyes searching him. “Confirm it is really you, love.”

Harry should’ve prepared for this. After what he thought must have been a minute-long pause, he said, “Father used to conjure the night sky before I went to sleep. I appreciate those times now more than ever.”

Narcissa closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them again, she looked behind her, and back at him. “Is something wrong? Your father and I have not heard from you recently.” Even through the flames, Harry could tell that Narcissa’s face was weighed down by stress.

“Dumbledore drank a fatal potion I gave him last night. He won’t wake up.”

“Are you certain he drank the potion? You aren’t underestimating him?”

“I’m certain. In a few hours, if he’s dead—what shall I do then?”

“You will meet me in Hogsmeade, and we will escape to the manor.”

“What if I’m caught?”

“The Dark Lord will protect you, Draco. Once he prevails . . .” She lowered her voice. “We have our home in France. I want you to be safe, love.”

Goosebumps crawled up Harry’s arms. He hardly ever envied Draco, but being spoken to as though he were her son . . . the closest comparison he had was how Mrs. Weasley treated him. “I have a way to lure Harry Potter to the manor.”

“Draco, the task at hand is more than enough, you should see it through.”

“This will be very simple. You just have to tell me one thing. Is there a special cup at home? One the Dark Lord asked you to protect?”

The fire sputtered, and Narcissa looked around. Turning back to him, she said, “ _Yes_ , I love you too. I have to go. Goodbye.”

Her emphasis on the “yes” had to be a veiled response to his question.

Harry put out the flames and let out a shout of triumph. Had he done it? This was the last piece of the puzzle, assuming Nagini was a Horcrux. He still had doubts, though: why would Voldemort trust the Malfoys with a Horcrux, especially after the diary was destroyed? Could it be another test? If the Manor was being used as a base for Death Eater operations, it may offer extra protection, but ran the risk of more people knowing about such an important object. 

Without waiting to transform back, Harry ran to Dumbledore’s office. Just before entering, he decided to pretend to be Draco, just to see what would happen.

“I see you have let yourself in.”

Harry did his best to imitate Draco’s posture, the nervous cracks in his behavior as of late. “There’s no sense in dragging this out. I want to tell you that there’s an object of importance at my home—a special sort of cup.”

“Why are you telling me this, Draco?”

“Because no one has to know I told you. I have experience with Occlumency; I won’t be found out. And I assume your powers are far greater than mine.”

“This cup . . . do you know what makes it significant?”

“Only that the Dark Lord asked us to keep it safe until he constructed a safer place to conceal it.”

“What does it look like?”  
“It’s—I’m not sure.”

Dumbledore studied him, not bothering to hide his suspicion. “Why should I believe you are telling me the truth?”

Harry set down his wand. “I’ve helped you, haven’t I?”

“This plot is much larger than you, Draco. I understand you wish to right your wrongs, however, your family’s loyalty to Voldemort will directly result in the deaths of people, including not only strangers for whom you care nothing, but also loved ones for whom you care dearly. Your detachment from this reality is quite despicable.”

Harry looked upset without putting on an act, since hearing this from Dumbledore reinvigorated his doubts about the possibility of Draco becoming better.

“If you truly have come here to repent and right your wrongdoing, then perhaps there is hope for you.”

“I don’t think I can do it. Go through with what he wants. I had convinced myself I could, but now that I’m so close . . .”

Dumbledore softened his tone. “I will protect you, Draco. If you truly wish to rescind your mission, you will be protected.”

“And my family?”

“Your mother and father can likely get immunity for providing information.”

Harry didn’t have to feign relief. “And the Unbreakable Vow—if you don’t die, will Professor Snape be killed by the enchantment?”

“In theory.”

“Is there any way to stop it? Keep both of you from dying?”

“There may be a way. You cannot know.”

Harry sighed and relaxed his posture. “I’m not Draco, sir. I just drank Polyjuice Potion to look like him, I’m actually Harry.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “You transformed into Draco to find out about the cup, and the potion’s effects have yet to wear off. The subtleties of your impersonation leave me with no doubt that you are indeed Harry.”

“Draco doesn’t know about Horcruxes. I got that information from Slughorn by taking one of his memories; we watched it together.”

“To be certain, I must choose what to enquire. In your first visit to my office, what caught fire?”

“It was Fawkes! Your phoenix, it was his Burning Day, and I was scared you’d think I’d gone and killed him . . .”

Dumbledore smiled at the memory. “Very well, Harry. Why the theatrics? Why risk coming here as Draco Malfoy?”

Harry sat down, knowing it would take at least twenty minutes to rush through the story of the past year, leaving out his feelings for Draco. By the time he had finished, he was back in his body.

“. . . Given how close we are now to destroying the Horcruxes, I think I’m going to ask Snape if he knows how to end the loop.”

Dumbledore sat down heavily in the chair at his desk.

“Yes, I think it is due time.” He rubbed his beard. “Harry, it is likely I could have ended the time loop much sooner than I led you to believe.”

Harry shook his head. “No, you told me didn’t know how. None of the professors could help me, either.”

“It would have occurred to me that your situation would provide us an opportunity to find the Horcruxes. Rather than try to help you, I hoped you would make a breakthrough and we would have a crucial advantage  . . .”

“But you wouldn’t have figured out how to end the loop in just a day.”

Dumbledore looked at him, face weary. “I knew that Severus tried to reverse time. Very early in his tenure as a professor at Hogwarts, he discovered my Time-Turner and attempted to use it. Fortunately, I prevented him from doing so, and upon questioning him, he told me what he had done as a teenager. It would not have been difficult to put the pieces together.”

Harry stood up. _“Do you have any idea what you put me through?_ How much bloody time I wasted—you couldn’t have helped me find the Horcruxes at the very beginning?”

“The Horcruxes are only part of the key to ending the time loop. There is no use in telling you anything beyond that . . .”

“What do I have to do?”

“If I am correct, you are incredibly close. It could be tomorrow, it could be in a few days. If it persists, you may have to find the exact location of the cup.”

“How do you know?”

“I only have a theory.”

“You owe it to me to tell me.”

“Unfortunately, telling you would not help the matter. Listen, Harry, I owe you the truth about something else.” He pulled back his sleeve to reveal the burns crawling up his arm from his hand. “The curse from the Gaunt ring will eventually consume my body and my mind. It will kill me within the year, Harry. There is nothing that can be done.”

“No . . .”

“You had a year more with me than you would have had otherwise. I know I have caused you a great deal of pain over the course of your life, and I do not expect your forgiveness. Knowing I be alive for Voldemort’s final days is enough.”

Harry let out a quavering breath, vision blurred with tears. “Can’t you do anything about the curse?”

“It is time death caught up to me. I am truly sorry, Harry. I had not intended to tell you to undermine your anger with me.”

When Harry returned to the common room, eyes red from crying, Ron and Hermione were talking at the foot of the stairs to the boys’ dorm. Everyone else had left for breakfast.

Hermione hurried over when she saw him. “Harry! Where were you this morning? Are you okay?”

“I have to tell you something.” He went over to the couch and sat down. “First, we now know the location of all of the Horcruxes. And second, I wanted to know what happened to Dumbledore’s hand. And I found out—he’s dying.”

Ron paled. “No, not Dumbledore! There’s still a lot he hasn’t told you, he wouldn’t be dying anytime soon.”

“He told you this?” Hermione’s expression was frozen in disbelief.

“Eventually, yeah.” He was ready with a false story. “First I found a memory in his Pensieve where he told Snape he was dying. When I asked him about it, he admitted that he didn’t have much time left.”

Ron and Hermione sat in stunned silence.

They both waited for his reaction, though their own eyes had filled with tears.

“Harry, I-I’m so sorry,” said Hermione finally, voice breaking.

“Yeah.” He couldn’t bring himself to speak, as his throat was constricted.

“If—when he dies, no one will be standing in Voldemort’s way,” said Hermione.

“But at least you know how to stop him!” said Ron, suddenly remembering the good news.

Harry chose to pretend as though the time loop hadn’t happened, since Dumbledore’s mortality would be enough for Ron and Hermione to process.

“Harry, I think there’s something Dumbledore isn’t telling you about your connection with Voldemort.” Tears still ran down Hermione’s face, but she ignored them.

“Like what?”

“I think there’s something more. Whatever it is, it’s probably important you know.”

Harry gritted his teeth. They all had already grown accustomed to jumping over the grieving process to what they could do to prevent more deaths. “I think it’s better, knowing he’s going to die, as much as I dread the idea. If he could only live long enough to see Voldemort defeated . . .”

Hermione placed her hand over Harry’s. “He’s the greatest wizard in the world for a reason. You will both see the end of this, I’m sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter illustration image description: Digital illustration. Narcissa Malfoy’s head floats in green flames. She looks worried, and her hair looks unhealthy, with her dark-haired roots grown in a few inches.]


	16. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Won't this day ever end?

Harry was surprised for the first time in a while to wake up and see the glasses next to his bed on top of his book. Apparently, if there was hope of breaking the time loop, it wasn’t enough to just know about all of the Horcruxes and how the time loop began.

He hadn’t interacted with Draco at all his previous go, which meant simply not casting _Sectumsempra_ might not be enough, either. To see if there was anything he might be missing, he decided to attempt consoling Draco before he would talk to Dumbledore again.

That evening, he waited until Draco had been in the girl’s bathroom for fifteen minutes, then quietly entered.

Harry kept his wand at his side. “Draco. . .”

Moaning Myrtle looked up. Draco spotted Harry in the bathroom mirror, spun around, and cast a hex in his direction.

_“Protego!”_

Draco furrowed his brow, then threw another spell, and another as Harry continued to block them.

As soon as there was a gap in Draco’s aggression, Harry disarmed him. He pointed his wand at Draco and crossed the room to retrieve the wand, before pocketing both. They were standing close, now.

Draco furiously wiped his eyes, widening his stance as though he expected Harry to lunge at him. “How did you know I was here, Potter?”

“Luck. I wanted to tell you that I don’t want to be enemies anymore. I know you’ve been trying to kill Dumbledore, and seeing as you don’t want to do it—you’re just protecting your family and have tremendous pressure to follow through—I won’t hold it against you. Assuming you do the right thing.”

Draco’s face was deathly pale. “What—how—”

“I found out by following you. No one told me.”

At Draco’s expression, Harry wanted to take it back, not add to his confusion. But he pressed forward. “I also know you plan to help Death Eaters into Hogwarts.”

The fire in Draco’s eyes lit again. “I can’t let you leave, knowing that.” He wound back his arm to throw a punch, but Harry saw it coming and dodged out of the way.

“Listen, even if you kill me, or erase my memory, I left multiple notes to Ron and Hermione.”

Draco struggled to return to a defensive stance, waiting for an opening. “I wish I could kill you.”

“It’s not a matter of _could_. You wouldn’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know you, Draco, and I also know Voldemort wants me for himself.”

“Since when do you call me Draco, Potter?”

“Draco Potter sounds odd, but so does Harry Malfoy.”

“What the hell are you—”

Moaning Myrtle chose that moment to swoop down, flying past the two boys as she emitted a long cry. _“Don’t fight. Don’t fight, it won’t change anything!”_

Draco scowled. “Butt out.”

Myrtle’s eyes started to well up. “You don’t need to pretend we’re not friends when Harry’s here; he and I are friends, too.”

To conceal his scoff, Harry cleared his throat. “Er, yeah.”

Myrtle floated between Harry and Draco. “Will you kiss and make up?” She then shrieked with laughter and dove into the nearest toilet.

Ignoring her, Harry continued, “I can help you. You and your family would be rewarded. You could make up for everything you’ve done.”

Draco’s face was blotchy and his chin trembled. “It can’t be that simple, Potter.”

“Look, there are two things I can tell you, the rest will have to wait. First, Dumbledore—he’s . . . he is going to die even if you don’t kill him. Long story short, Voldemort cursed him but doesn’t know he did, so even if you kill Dumbledore, he would have died soon anyway.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out why Harry would lie.

“And second, because of a secret your mother told me, I will be able to defeat Voldemort. For now, you just have to trust me that the secret she’s shared is enough to exonerate your family.”

Harry stepped closer. Before Draco had time to process what was happening, Harry had wrapped his arms around him.

“Get off—what the hell?” Whatever magic effect Harry expected the embrace to have, he was grossly mistaken. Draco wrenched himself out of Harry’s grasp, breathing hard. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Potter, but stay away from me.” He began to push past Harry, who grabbed his arm to stop him.

“If you’re going to tell anyone, just wait. Give it until tomorrow to be certain, before you do anything.”

Draco tensed. “Why should I? You live to ruin my plans. How am I supposed to believe you won’t stab me in the back?”

“As often as you’ve screwed me over, I don’t want you dead.” Harry lightened his grip, and Draco swung his arm back. “And conveniently, you don’t want to kill anyone. What you do want is glory and safety, to be loved and understood, to have your family and your dignity; I can give you all of that.”

“Fine, Potter,” he spat, “I’ll wait. But only because I have to figure out why you’re doing this.” And with that, he stalked out of the room.

Harry left soon after, instead heading in the opposite direction to Dumbledore’s office.

As he had nearly every time previously, Dumbledore looked up from his desk in mild surprise. “Good evening, Harry. Is everything alright?”

“I need to talk to you. And Snape, too. I know you try to limit what he knows, but it’s important that he’s here as well.”

Dumbledore studied Harry, able—as usual—to sense something deeper had changed. He told one of the portraits to fetch Snape, then returned to his desk.

“I know the location of all of the Horcruxes.”

Dumbledore blinked. “Are you sure? How is that possible?”

“The locket is in Grimmauld Place, the cup is in Malfoy Manor, and the diadem is in the Room of Hidden Things. I’m guessing Nagini is with Voldemort.”

The Headmaster tapped the table, the most perplexed Harry had ever seen him. “But how do you know?”

“It’s a long story. But I think once I explain, we should plan to take out his Horcruxes—and him—within a day.”

“One day? I can see the advantage in doing so, Harry, but being too hasty may jeopardize what you have discovered. There may be hidden factors we have not yet considered. . . It would be nearly impossible to implement.”

“I know, but the locket and the diadem would be easy to destroy. We can send some members of the D.A. to take care of them. And at the same time, we rally the Order, send some people to Malfoy Manor for the cup and Voldemort will probably follow, along with his snake.”

There was a knock on the door, and Snape entered the room. “You sent for me, Albus?” He looked at Harry. “Potter. Has something happened?”

Dumbledore turned to Harry and motioned for him to sit.

Harry did so, and took a breath. “All right. I’ll start from the beginning.” He limited his explanation to his hunt for the Horcruxes and his efforts to figure out how to restore time, avoided mentioning Severus’ memories, and ended with the revelation about Dumbledore’s impending death.

“Do you have a theory about why you triggered the time loop?”

“No, sir, only what you told me: that Snape had tried it before.”

Harry felt Snape’s eyes bore into his head, so he put walls up in his mind. The only way it would be worth telling them was if he explained Draco’s involvement, otherwise there could be no useful advice.

“There is no need for Legilimency, Severus. If Harry conceals information, we should trust that he has weighed the consequences of doing so. He knows more than we do about his situation, after all.” He stood up and paced. “I think properly timing the destruction of Horcruxes will be critical; I understand you have galleons that you can use to communicate with members of the D.A. We must get to the cup before anyone destroys a Horcrux, and Voldemort cannot die before every Horcrux is destroyed.”

They discussed various modes of action, deciding to inform McGonagall as soon as the time loop ended. She would coordinate the Order’s movements, Harry would coordinate the D.A.’s. Together, they would stagger informing people based on their individual risk (Mundungus and anyone working in the Ministry would be informed last) and commence the plan first thing the following morning.

In the event that the time loop continued, Harry would report to Snape and Dumbledore every day going forward. With a plan in place, Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower to tell Ron and Hermione about the time loop. That conversation went as it usually did: apologies for not believing Draco had a nefarious plan, shock in response to the time loop, encouragement with the hope that this must be the last day.

“Do you feel any different?” asked Hermione, peering closely at him.

At his core, no, but when he blinked, an image of an unrecognizable expression on Draco’s face burned into his vision. And when he tried to fall asleep, his heart would not slow along with his breathing.

The next morning, Harry woke up and took his glasses from the side of the nightstand. There was a sluggish moment as he processed the series of motions: the peripheral glance at the blurred frames, the small metal sound against the wood of the table’s surface as he picked them up, the clarity of the book on the opposite end.

Time had not reset.

“Ron,” he croaked, glee swelling in his chest.

“What? What is it?” said Ron over the groan of protest from Dean’s bed.

“The loop’s broken. Bloody hell, it’s broken.”

“You’re serious?” Ron’s bed creaked as he leapt up and rushed to Harry. “Well, I remember, don’t I? So what’s it mean?”

“It’s not over yet. I’ll explain everything after breakfast.”

Hermione ran to hug him as soon as he came into view. “Harry! Thank Merlin! Are you sure there won’t be another one?”

“Ah, I hadn’t thought about that, thanks.”

Hermione released him, smiling weakly. “It seems unlikely. Given the amount of magic required to create the time loop, it wouldn’t stop unless you broke it. What did you do differently?”  
Over the course of the morning, he caught them up on what he had discussed with Dumbledore and Snape. They agreed with everything that had been planned, and Hermione suggested bringing Felix Felicis with them to help. At lunch, Harry stared at the Slytherin table until Draco finally met his eyes. He looked even worse than the day before, a blaze of anger the only emotion lighting his exhausted features.

Harry gestured to the left with his head and raised his eyebrows, repeating this a few times until Draco rolled his eyes, muttered something to Crabbe and Goyle, and got up.

“I’m going to talk to talk to the Headmaster again,” Harry lied easily to Ron and Hermione. “I’ll meet you after in the common room.”

“If you want us to come with you, mate, we can,” offered Ron, accompanied by a nod from Hermione.

“Maybe later.” He was too worried things would go wrong, and Draco already presented too much of a risk. With the time loop over, anything that happened would be permanent.

When he left through the main doors of the Great Hall, he caught a glimpse of Malfoy walking briskly down the corridor and set off to follow him. Finally, once they were far enough away, Harry said, “Are you going to let me—”

Draco glanced around, then grabbed Harry by the front of his shirt and pulled him out of sight, around the corner. “You have to tell me how you know what you know.” He was breathing hard, clearly panicked.

“You’ve studied Legilimency, haven’t you?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Use it, now.”

After a moment’s confusion, Draco stitched his brows together and stared, much as Harry had seen Snape do for years.

The memories of Draco feeding Harry information floated to the surface. Dozens of snippets of their conversations, of parallel moments, of Harry finding the Horcruxes. He couldn’t control the bits of his plans with Snape and Dumbledore that mixed in, nor could he control his most intimate moments with Draco, which looked as though Harry had not been the one to initiate them . . .

As though an electric shock passed through him, Draco let go of Harry. _“How did you do that, Potter?”_

“Do what?”

Draco swore and pulled at his hair. “None of that happened. I don’t remember—did you erase my memories? Use the Imperius Curse? You—you have no idea what you’ve done . . .” Overwrought with emotion, Draco could only search Harry desperately for an explanation.

“I _do_ know. I was trapped in the same day for a year, I found the Horcruxes—er, the objects Voldemort’s created to keep himself alive—and you helped me. We’re going to kill Voldemort very soon, and he won’t see it coming. If you think of telling him, or anyone, the plan will fail, and you could endanger your family . . .”

“Why would I have possibly helped you?”

“I, er, forced you to help, at times. And I figured things out indirectly. But that’s what you’ve really wanted, deep down, isn’t it? For Voldemort to be dead, so things can return to normal, and you’d be free.”

Draco’s face contorted with rage. “And my father will rot in prison, and when you fail, I’ll be killed.” He grabbed Harry’s arms and pushed him against the wall, pinning him. “You cannot kill the Dark Lord. He is too powerful, he’s using some kind of magic to make himself impossible to kill.”

“But I’m the Chosen One. If I could nearly kill him as a baby, why shouldn’t I be able to do it now?” As Harry smirked, he became self-conscious at his own false bravado, a similar confidence to what Draco had plastered over his doubts about killing Dumbledore.

Draco drew his wand and pointed it at Harry’s throat. “Even if you succeed, the Dark Lord’s death will not get my father out of Azkaban. You had no right to involve me in this.”

“You’re the one who chose to be a Death Eater. Or were forced to become a Death Eater. Regardless, this is your way out. Even if you don’t remember, you already did nearly everything you have to do. There’s just one thing left.”

“And what’s that?” Stubbornly, Draco kept his wand raised.

“On the day we carry out the plan to kill Voldemort, you can choose to fight with us, or against us. If you fight against us and your side falls, your family could end up in prison. If you fight with us, you’ll be on the winning side.”

“And if I fight against you and you lose?”

“We won’t.”

“If I fight with you and I die?” The watchfulness in Draco’s eyes seemed to indicate a test, perhaps an unconscious one; how much did Harry really care about him?

“You won’t be fighting on your own. Snape vowed to protect you, and I’ll do my best to do the same.”

“I’m not weak, Potter.”

“I never said you were. Why can’t you just do the right thing for once in your life?”

Draco finally lowered his wand. “You talk as though there’s no risk.”

“My whole life has been a series of risks, and I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

“Like you said, you’re ‘The Chosen One.’ You won’t die until the Dark Lord . . .” Catching himself, Draco looked away, briefly.

Harry laughed, catching them both by surprise. “This is unbelievably messed up.” Even so, Draco’s anger had faded into irritation, and the almost intentional weakening of his counterargument gave Harry hope. “You’ve kissed me, you know. In your memories. More than once, actually.”

“That’s impossible.” Draco looked as though he’d be sick.

“You saw it yourself.”

Alarm widened Draco’s eyes. “You could have tampered with them, altered them . . . and if that’s the case, I fail to understand why you would invent such perverse memories, except to mock me.”

“And _I_ fail to understand why you thought kissing me was the best way to prove I wasn’t attracted to you.”

“Don’t—”

“Lie to you? I’ve heard that before.”

Draco’s face went a mottled red color. “Well, what do you expect me to say, Potter? You are clearly trying to manipulate me into keeping what you know a secret as you sabotage me.” Thinking he had encountered the truth, Draco continued, “That is why you have invented this story, to save your own neck, you know the Dark Lord is invincible—”

“Stop, that makes no sense. If I thought it would take something so unlikely to keep you quiet, why would I have bothered telling you in the first place?”

“It would not be the maddest thing you’ve done, Potter.”

Harry crossed his arms. “No madder than what you’ve been planning.”

Draco closed his eyes, wavering on the spot, so that Harry was tempted to grab his arm to steady him. “You must understand how much you’re asking me to sacrifice.”

“I do. I get—for you—it’s quite sudden, but think—Dumbledore says it’ll work, and he’s the one person Voldemort fears, right?”

Rubbing his face with his hands, Draco exhaled. “Does anyone else know?”

“Snape knows the majority of the plan, yes. He’s helped, too; none of this would be possible without him. We should talk to him together, if you don’t believe me.”

Paling, Draco hissed, “You idiot, he works for the Dark Lord. He has promised to—anyhow, he can’t be trusted.”

“I’m certain he’s a double agent for Dumbledore, not Voldemort. I had a year to make sure. You needn’t worry about him.”

“If what you say is true, he will die. He made an Unbreakable Vow, if he doesn’t—”

“ . . . kill Dumbledore, or the Vow will kill him. I know. He knows, too.”

“And he’s okay with dying?”

“I don’t know, actually. Best if you talk to him about it.”

“Care to mention anyone else who has to die for your plan to work?”

“Of course there’s a chance, but no one should have to die. We have that in common: not wanting anyone to get hurt, wanting ourselves and the people we love to survive.” He hadn’t intended this last bit, “the people we love” to include Draco, but the longer the silence after this stretched, the more the words wrapped around both of them. The clarity sharpening Draco’s eyes whittled Harry down, sothat his voice was quiet when he asked, “Do you hate me?”

Scoffing, Draco shook his head. “What in Merlin’s name happened to you, Potter?”

“More than I can explain.” He stepped forward, back from the wall, and Malfoy jumped back, making both of them realize how close they’d been. “We should talk to Snape.”

It wasn’t until they had knocked on the door to Snape’s office that, with a sickly unpleasant feeling, Harry realized he forgot to tell Draco not to mention their . . . past encounters. He had grown so accustomed to time restarting that he needed to remind himself that his words and actions, or lack thereof, had consequences. Hopefully Draco had enough sense to keep quiet.

“Potter told me what you are planning to do, ambushing the Dark Lord. He says he’s doing it for me, but—”

Harry cleared his throat, feeling the heat rise to his face. “What he means is, he doesn’t believe that it’s in his best interest.”

“Why would you reveal what you’re planning?”

“To make sure you don’t get in the way, or do the wrong thing once we show up at the manor! I had to tell him, sir, if you wouldn’t.” He addressed Draco now. “If you turned against us in the battle and we won, you’d be in Azkaban for life. Or at least your parents would be.”

“Is that a threat, Potter?”

“No, of course I don’t want you to go to Azkaban, I just—”

Snape held up his hand, glaring at Harry. “Enough. The last thing we need is any unnecessary variable in the plan, and informing Draco puts us all in danger.”

“What I don’t understand,” interrupted Draco, having turned red with the desire to speak, “is why you made that vow if you knew you wouldn’t kill Dumbledore.”

“That is none of your concern.”

“So then, do you hate your life enough that you’re willing to throw it away? Or are you hiding something?”

“You _will_ follow this plan,” said Snape sharply. “The time for coddling you has passed. Your mother asked me to protect you, so that is what I am doing.” He glanced at Harry. “Wait outside, Potter.”

Harry was relieved to do so. If anyone could talk sense into Draco, it was Snape. Ten minutes later, Draco came out of the office and shut the door behind him. Barely glancing at Harry, he said, “Fine. I’ll go along with this.”

“That’s great—”

“But I have trouble believing what you have claimed to feel, and I suspect you are deluded by whatever magic allowed you to repeat time.”

“That’s fine, I know it’s a lot—”

“So you have to wait.”

“Right. I’m used to waiting.”

“Well. Good luck,” said Draco, extending a hand.

“Yeah. You’ll be alright,” said Harry, and they quickly shook hands, the touch already seeming too formal.

After talking to Draco, Harry used the Marauder’s Map to find Luna, Ginny, Cho, Dean, Seamus, and Neville and gathered them in the Room of Requirement, along with Hermione and Ron. He didn’t want to implicate all of the D.A. members, but he could at least gather those whom he could count on the most. He grouped Luna, Seamus, and Dean together to retrieve the Diadem; Ginny, Cho, and Neville to retrieve the locket; and Hermione and Ron to go to the Ministry to inform a list of trustworthy people what was happening. He explained where everything was, how to destroy the objects, and where he would be as all of this happened.

“What if you need help at the manor?”

“I don’t want more people getting involved than necessary. There’s no reason to put yourselves at risk.”

Cho crossed her arms. “Harry, if there’s more people on our side, we’ll be able to defend ourselves.”

“We don’t know how many Death Eaters will be there. Besides, the Order should be sufficient.”  
“We can’t stand by and do nothing while others are risking their lives,” said Seamus.

If time were repeating, he could test different arguments, even prevent their getting involved in the first place. Now, the best he could do was manage the fallout of a possible mistake. “If you join, you have to swear to me you will not bring any other members of the D.A. with you.”

They all nodded.

“We’ll meet in the Hog’s Head at eight tomorrow morning. If anyone asks where you’re going, say you’re going on a walk, or want to get some last-minute assignment done, something that will be inconspicuous. It’ll be easy enough for the five of us,” he looked at Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus, “so we can count on that.” After answering their remaining questions, the group began to head off to their respective dorms.

“Ah, Ginny, I wanted to talk to you before you go.”

Ginny glanced at Hermione, but hung back.

“I just want to tell you that I was stuck in time. I lived out the same day over and over again for a year.”

Once shock had run its course and he’d explained the situation while reassuring her that he was alright, she said, “Whenever you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

What he hadn’t told her was that they’d gotten together in the time loop. “Once this is over, I’ll explain everything properly, but that’s how I knew about these objects. A lot has changed.” He searched for a hint of recognition in her.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, though only for a moment. “I can only imagine.”

That evening, Harry went with Ron and Hermione to retrieve Basilisk fangs—two for each of the Horcruxes. When he and Ron returned to the fifth year boys’ dorm, the other three were still awake.

“Not to put a damper on your plans, Harry,” said Seamus, “but it would’ve been better to find out tomorrow. I’m not going to sleep a wink.”

“Sorry, I assumed you’d prefer to know sooner than later.”

“S’fine,” said Dean, meeting Seamus’ eye.

How odd it felt to live with every small decision. The time for do-overs had passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter illustration image description: Digitally altered tarot card illustration. A red-winged angel with blonde hair blows a golden horn from the sky. She overlooks people reaching up toward her on the ground, emerging from what appear to be caskets. It seems one of these people may be Harry and one may be Draco.


	17. The Hidden Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course Harry couldn't have known everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Groundhog Day! Chapter illustration image description is in the end notes.

At seven in the morning, after a night of fitful half-sleep, Harry went to Dumbledore’s office. Snape was clearly agitated, pacing, but Dumbledore was leaning against his desk, arms folded.

“Good morning.”

“Morning. Everything okay?”

Snape clucked his tongue, expression remaining severe, as Dumbledore said, “Yes. Is everything regarding the D.A. in place?”

“Yep.” Harry quickly ran through who was going where, when, and to destroy what. “We’ll meet in the Hog’s Head at eight.”

“Great. Is there anything you need? Anything you want to know?”

“I’ve had a year to learn what I don’t know.” Even as he spoke, the air in the room seemed heavier than usual. “I doubt there’s much left.”

Dumbledore averted his eyes.

“What is it?” Harry glanced at Snape, whose eyes also snapped to the Headmaster.

“Harry,” began Dumbledore, the name escaping him as a sigh, “there is something I have kept from you, something you must know before going into battle.”

Harry had no idea what it could be; he had picked apart every aspect of reality, uncovered every secret worth knowing, forged a decisive path.

“I thought we weren’t telling him—”

“It is not something I have shared with you yet, Severus. Please let me finish. I would have preferred to inform you before, but all of this happened quite suddenly. A large part of me would prefer not to tell you at all—to spare myself the pain, to spare you. Alas, I cannot.”

“What is it?”

“You found all of the Horcruxes, except one.”

Harry’s heart plummeted. He could almost hear the next words, that the battle had to be postponed, that Voldemort would have enough time to figure out their plans. “Do you know where it is? How to destroy it?”

Dumbledore nodded, but this, apparently, was not a good thing.

“There is a reason Voldemort could send you the vision of Sirius, a reason you saw that Muggle murdered in your fourth year. It is why you can talk to snakes, why your scar hurts when you are near Voldemort or when he feels intense emotion.

“On the night Voldemort killed your parents, your mother protected you, sacrificing her own life to save yours. This directed the Killing Curse back at Voldemort, breaking a fragment of his soul apart. That fragment searched for a living soul to latch onto. It found you. Harry, you are the final Horcrux.”

Harry’s skin prickled with what felt akin to disgust, his insides writhing in protest. While he stayed completely silent, Severus let out a half-choked “No!”

Purely in response to Dumbledore’s glassy eyes, which had just spilled over, tears began to run down Harry’s face.

“As long as his Horcrux lives inside you, so does Voldemort live.”

“So, you’re saying I have to—have to die?”

Dumbledore didn’t react immediately, but after a moment, he nodded. 

“How long have you known?”

“After your first year, when your scar hurt—I had a strong suspicion.”

“That long?” Severus let out a laugh that rattled Harry. “I thought—I thought we were protecting him. For his mother, for Lily.”

Neither of them looked at Harry. “We protected him to be sure he could face the challenges he would encounter throughout his school years. He has proved essential to stopping Voldemort, as the prophecy predicted. This link between him and Voldemort has only grown stronger over the years, a sign of Voldemort’s increasing strength. It is this link that must be destroyed to stop Voldemort.”

“You—you kept him alive, just so he could die at the right moment?”

“You can hardly be shocked, Severus. There have been plenty of innocent lives taken at the expense of Voldemort, murders you have witnessed.”

“And you? Potter’s death is on your hands, not mine. You—you used me.”

“How, may I ask?”

“I sacrificed my life, I spied for you and lied for you, to keep her son safe. Lily’s son. And you tell me you have raised him like a pig for slaughter—”

“You care for the boy, then, Severus? In spite of everything?”

Snape shook his head, but it was in disbelief, not denial. “He is right there, Albus,” he whispered.

“He will die, Severus. He deserves to know.”

Snape looked at Harry, who felt a jolt course through him at his expression, one he had never seen before. “Of course I care for him. Of course I do.” He ran a hand over his face and drew his wand. _“Expecto Patronum!”_

A silver doe burst from his wand and danced around the room. She sparkled through Harry’s tears and bounded up to him, curious. He reached out to touch her, and his fingers felt warm where they passed through her ears.  
“I wish it could have been different,” said Dumbledore, and the doe vanished, “but it was necessary. After everything you have been through, it felt a betrayal either way, keeping it from you or telling you. There was a risk telling you would allow Voldemort to find out, however, I wished for you to not have your death hanging over your head.”

“If I had known . . . I would’ve lived differently, I’d have . . .”

“Can you be sure? So you would not have dedicated your time to fighting Voldemort or spending it with friends, as you have these past several years?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea.” If he had known, everything would have seemed meaningless. Perhaps he would have feared the future.

“It was selfish of me to keep this from you. As much as I believed it to be for the best, I also did not want to confront the truth, let alone tell you myself. Similarly, you may or may not want your friends to know. I fear it may compromise the mission if they become too distraught or try to prevent your death.”

Imagining Hermione and Ron’s reactions to his death was too much to bear. He felt an odd distance from his fate but loathed the idea of his friends seeing his dead body. In Snape he saw the pain he imagined they would feel. “Thank you, for protecting me. And for helping the cause for so many years.”

“Albus,” said Snape, unable to look back at Harry, “if you had told me he would die—”

“You would have lived differently, too? You would have been less cruel to Harry and his classmates? You cannot blame me for that. If you wish to apologize, there is no better time than now. After, you and I must talk alone.”

“Potter—Harry, I am sorry,” said Severus, as Harry stood to leave. “I am.” He held out his hand, and they shook on his apology, although it felt more like a goodbye.

Assuring them he could still make it to the Hog’s Head, Harry stiffly walked down the stairs. He was so consumed by his thoughts that he hardly registered he was walking, and everything in his line of sight was as unreal as in one of Dudley’s computer games.

It made sense to him, death. Living with the Dursleys before Hogwarts, there were long stretches of time he wished only to sleep,and only to wake up to spite his adoptive family. Now, he had Hermione and Ron—but they had each other, they could survive without him. Cedric and Sirius had died because of him, and it was only right that he would join them and his parents, and whoever else died in the final standoff.

He had been oblivious not to assume this was how it would end. What the prophecy had predicted was almost true: neither could live, and ultimately, neither could survive. Everything that had seemed like a gift was a curse; each day in the loop was a day closer to Harry’s death rather than closer to the rest of his life. The loop had swallowed up a year, maybe more. What was the difference between life in suspended time and the afterlife, if he even believed in that sort of thing? Had he been in purgatory all along?

Malfoy was a tear in the dark fabric to which Harry would surrender himself. Once he was gone, Malfoy’s future was uncertain: would he end up in Azkaban? Would he remain an entitled git?

_Will he mourn me?_

Trelawney’s newest prediction rang in his mind: “The estranged will survive and reunite at the passage . . . The one who restored time will expire as the loved ones return.” She had known he would die, but which loved ones were meant to return? The first half didn’t make sense to him yet, either. At least the only death she explicitly mentioned was his own.

When he got reached the Hog’s Head, Draco was waiting outside, fidgeting with his robes.

“Alright?”

“Yeah. Hey,” said Draco, dropping the fabric in his hands, “what’s happened?”

Harry was surprised to find his eyes were wet when he rubbed them. “It’s nothing. You joining us, then? Let’s go inside.”

Draco stepped between him and the door. “If something’s gone wrong, you have to tell me.”

“You will be fine, Malfoy. Can you pretend I never—” He didn’t have time for this. “Pretend I never fancied you. Pretend you never fancied me, if you’d ever even admit to that. It’ll be easier.” The frustration brought him out of his sorrow. “Let me through, for Merlin’s sake!”

“I don’t—you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

If he decided to tell anyone, it had to be someone who wouldn’t care enough to break. “Draco, I’m going to die.”

“What?”

“In order for Voldemort to die, he has to kill me.”

“But . . . why?”  
“It’s hard to explain. It’s the only way the plan will work. This is just between me, Dumbledore, Snape, and now you, got it? I don’t want anyone else to know, not even Ron and Hermione.” He was tearing up again. “After it happens, tell them I was ready for it, and I loved them, okay? There wasn’t time to write a note, and I’d rather not think about it . . .”

Draco grabbed Harry’s arm and pulled him to the side of the building, out of sight. They stared at each other, though it was clear Draco had already decided what to do, cradling Harry’s face as he leaned in to kiss him.

Harry tried to kiss Draco back, except his breathing was too unsteady, so he pulled away and just held him.

“C’mon, you were running late, weren’t you?” said Draco, patting Harry’s back, voice gentler than his awkward hand.

“Mhm.” Harry blinked several times and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’m sorry.” Bracing himself to act as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, Harry opened the door, and they both stepped through into the Hog’s Head.

“What’s he doing here?” said Ron, getting to his feet so fast he nearly knocked over his chair. Dean and Seamus stood, too, and Harry almost laughed. Would he have thought anything of the difference between the way the boys acted compared to the girls prior to livingin the loop?

“Draco’s going to go to the manor with you all. To help. So, please try to be civil.”

“How can we trust him?” Unlike Ron, Ginny looked at Harry.

“You can’t. But you can trust me. You’ll see whatever he chooses to do once we’re all there.”

The next hour of conversation was made all the more uncomfortable with Draco knowing his fate; he tried to say everything he wanted to the others without giving anything away all while Draco stared at him.

“If something happens to me, I want you lot to finish what I started. I’ve left information with Aberforth that he will give to you or the D.A., depending on what is necessary.”

Hermione mumbled something about the bathroom and left. Did they hear a suppressed sob or was it a sigh? 

“I’m going to check on her,” said Ron before leaving.

Harry glanced at the others, then at Draco, and said, “Can I have a word?” Once they were out of earshot, Harry asked him, “How are you holding up?”

“How can you ask me that when you’re . . .”

“At least I know what’s coming. Any uncertainty I had about the future . . . it’s out of my hands, now.” He checked his watch. “Ten minutes. I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Potter, you shouldn’t have told me.”

Harry paused. “That I’m going to die?”

“You’re making it seem like I’m . . . special.”

They looked at each other a final time. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

Draco nodded.

When Harry found Ron and Hermione outside of the bathrooms, they were locked in an embrace—not kissing, but grasping each other tightly. Harry cleared his throat, and they flinched, mostly separating.

“We were just—y’know, in case we don’t make it . . .” Before Ron could finish, Harry wrapped his arms around them. There was no one or nothing more familiar in the world than his best friends, who possibly loved each other in a different way. He took in, for the very last time, the scent of Hermione’s hair and the force of her hands on his back; the slight tack to Ron’s heavily freckled skin from his nerves.

The three of them returned to the others, who were chatting idly. A couple people even laughed.

Harry handed the bottle of Felix Felicis to Hermione. “Before you go to the manor, I want you each to drink a few drops of this, enough to hopefully keep you safe.”

At that moment, Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Slughorn entered. “Good morning,” said Professor Slughorn, with a nervous twinge that Flitwick responded to with a sigh.

Before Slughorn could manage an inspirational speech or make a comment about the best and brightest students, or perhaps chastise Harry for not utilizing the Slug Club, McGonagall cut in, eyes sharp with anticipation. “We received a message from the Order, they are headed to Hogsmeade as planned. Sprout and the other faculty are securing the grounds in case Hogwarts is targeted.” She looked at the small group of students. “I suppose there is no point in convincing any of you to stay behind.”

There was a crack behind Harry, and someone yanked his arm. The next thing he knew, he was shoved through the compressive tube of Apparation. He was too shocked to think beyond Malfoy Manor and the crumbling of their plan.

When they reached their destination, just as Harry glimpsed the manicured shrubbery in front of Malfoy Manor, he was knocked out by a close-range Stunning Spell.

Snape’s voice brought him back to consciousness, seemingly a split second later, though it was impossible to tell. “. . . It will be a matter of hours before Dumbledore learns the Potter boy is gone. Or, you could lure him here.”

Harry opened his eyes. Voldemort stood at the other end of a large ballroom, flanked by a dozen Death Eaters. Two cloaked figures lay on the marble floor where Nagini coiled and uncoiled, agitated.

Voice nearly a hiss, eyes slit with rage, Voldemort said, “Albus Dumbledore must die. Draco failed to complete his mission, so it is up to you, Severus. Deliver me his body.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Narcissa!” Voldemort directed his attention to Draco’s mother, who flinched at this address. “Give Potter your wand.”

“My lord?”

“He cannot use his own when we duel. Give it over. Now!”

_So this is how it happens._

Finally, Voldemort looked at Harry, and searing pain shot through him as the Horcrux came to life. “Stand up, boy.”

Harry got to his feet, trading his wand for Narcissa’s. Their eyes met only briefly, and he wondered if he could consider her sacrifices for Draco similar to his own mother’s.

They both raised their wands, and before Harry could finish pronouncing the Disarming Charm, Voldemort’s Killing Curse hit him in the chest.

* * *

_Peace_. That was the first disembodied thought that crossed his mind—but did he even have a mind? He must, if he was thinking. He was alone, and it was so quiet and solitary that he wished to have any of his senses back. He couldn’t remember what it was like for there to be _something_ until he became aware that he must be anchored to something, somewhere, and felt as though he were lying down.

_Naked_ , was his next thought. _Where are my clothes?_ Though this only would have concerned him if he believed there was someone else there, wherever _there_ was. If he could feel naked, then surely he had—

_Eyes_. Upon opening them, he saw the shivering dark columns that composed his surroundings. The floor (was it a floor?) from which he now pushed himself up was black, flat, and stretched on for ages. A chalkboard on which to create a world.

There was a noise, a small writhing sound like a trapped animal trying to escape a box. Just as Harry wished he were wearing clothes, a folded bundle of robes appeared on the ground in front of him.

Slowly, the setting came into focus: he was in King’s Cross. Or at least some spectral version of it. He followed the sound until he located it emanating from a bench. Somehow knowing no physical harm could come to him, he looked under and saw a baby so disfigured he remembered what nausea felt like.

Bloody, skin raw, the infant stretched its frail arms up, its face contorting with silent cries, expression moving with an unnerving clarity. He didn’t want to help it. He knew he couldn’t, regardless.

When he looked around, what he saw banished any thought of the pitiful creature under the bench.

Two figures emerged from the mist, one woman and one man.

“Mum? Dad?” Harry took a step forward, then another, then ran at full speed.

“Harry.” His mother radiated an inhuman, all-encompassing warmth.

He nearly crashed into his father, laughing, nearly crying. How many times, as he looked at pictures of his mother and father, had he wished to hold them, to be held by them? “You look so young. I forgot how young you were, when . . . Is Sirius here, too?”

James’ smile faltered. “No.” He took a breath. “Harry, you’re not dead.”

“Oh. What? I’m dreaming, then? But the Killing Curse—”

Lily shook her head. “You are _in between_.”

It took Harry several moments to wrap his head around this. “That thing under the bench—is that Voldemort?”

“I believe so. A piece of him. That part of yourself is gone now.”

“We are so proud of you, Harry.” Lily touched Harry’s face. “Even if you had lost, we don’t feel our deaths were in vain.”

“You’ve seen me, then? You’ve been watching over me?”

“That’s a difficult question to answer. It feels that way, but our awareness is different here.”

“You know about the time loop, though?”

“Yes.”

“And—about Draco?”

They both nodded, and Lily glanced at James. “We know about Draco. You care for him, and he cares for you. That is what matters most to us.”

“Well, that’s important,” said James, “but it also matters that he’s making an effort to be better. You shouldn’t let him get away with mistreating you.”

“Okay.” Harry was unsure whether to laugh or cry. There were many times in his life where he longed for his parents’ guidance, and now they were giving him advice about something so mundane. “And does it matter that he’s a boy . . . ?”

Tears sparkled in Lily’s eyes. “Of course it doesn’t matter to us. Nothing you do could make us not love you, certainly not so trivial as that. We want you to be happy.”

“If your friends give you a hard time at first, just hang in there, yeah?” James put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “If they’re truly your friends, they will come around.”

“So I can go back? To the manor, to the real world?”

Lily nodded. “If you so choose.”

Harry didn’t want to leave them, but he wanted to finish what he’d started. His life, that is.

“I never got the chance to say thank you. Li—Mum, your sacrifice protected me. And Dad, you gave up your life to keep me safe. Both of you, because of you—I have this life that makes me happy.”

Lily’s eyes sparkled. “There was nothing else for us to do, Harry. You’re our son, and we cherishedthe time we had with you.”

“We’d do anything for you, love,” said James, “and if you have children, you’ll find you would do the same for them.”

Harry had so much to ask, and not enough time. “Mum, what would you say to Snape, if you could?”

“I might be inclined to chastise him for his cruelty. But I would thank him for protecting you, for his love, for our years of friendship. He may not have become the man I had hoped, but he has paid his dues.”

“I think so, too. Only . . . what if he never forgets you?” 

“Then I would pity him. You can mourn the dead, but do not pity us, for your pity does nothing. Pity those who live without love.”

Harry scrambled to think of more questions, more uncertainties, more advice he needed.

“Remus and Molly can guide you, Harry. They have lived much longer than we have, and they both love you. And if anything happens to them, there are others you can trust to be there for you.”

Harry saw the signs of resignation in their features. “I have to go back, haven’t I?”

“You get to decide.”

“I want to finish this. You’ll be there with me?”

“Of course.”

Harry looked at each of them again. Maybe they weren’t real, but they felt real. What the Mirror of Erised had shown him had not—could not—come true. The feeling of happiness was more complicated than he had experienced when looking at his parents in his first year at Hogwarts. Was it possible to feel discontent and acceptance at once?

Their retreating figures disappeared back into the mist, and he was left alone . . .

* * *

Sounds of battle jolted Harry awake. He was aware of the grip on his shoulder and panicked—he had surely given away that he was alive—but it was Snape he sat in front of, not Voldemort.

“You survived.” The weak relief in Snape’s voice took Harry by surprise, as did the sudden embrace. “The battle just begun. Nagini is dead, the other Horcruxes have been destroyed. We must locate the cup before the Dark Lord finds us.”

Dumbledore stood across the room, tracing the spines of the books on the large, looming bookshelf.

“Ah, I believe I found it. Your Parseltongue is required, Harry. And wear your cloak.” He gave no sign of surprise that Harry had survived the Killing Curse for a second time.

Quickly pulling on his cloak, Harry crossed to Dumbledore, whose finger rested on the gold-embossed snake on the spine of one volume.

“Open,” said Harry.

Dumbledore looked down at him. “You said that in English. Without Voldemort’s soul, you no longer have the ability to speak in Parseltongue without concentrating.”

“Right.” Harry breathed in, then repeated the soft, hissing phrase he had first used in his second year. The snake flashed green and a portion of the bookcase shifted back, then up, revealing a glass case that contained Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup. 

“Allow me,” said Dumbledore, then in a single motion, pulled the tiny gold knob on the outside of the case and reached inside to pick up the cup.

“Quickly, we will Apparate to the forest nearby to destroy it.”

Dumbledore took Harry’s arm, then Apparated to the woods just outside the manor.

The sun had set, leaving the sky a vibrant blue, which covered the manor grounds in a surreal glow.

Dumbledore set the cup on a slated rock on the ground, then produced—seemingly out of air—Godric Gryffindor’s sword. “Use this.”

Harry gripped the hilt, adrenaline steadying him.

“Now,” said Dumbledore.

As Harry swung down, he realized he couldn’t feel the protests of the cup in his head. The sword pierced the cup, and out from it burst a dark mass, which screamed before exploding in a spinning rush of smoke.

The brief moment of triumph ended abruptly; Dumbledore fell to his knees, pressing his damaged hand to his chest. Or rather, the end of his sleeve pressed to his chest—his hand was gone, and when he looked up, the burnt skin had crept up his neck.

“No . . .” Harry went to him and helped him to his feet, though his own legs felt weak. “Are you okay? Will you be able to go back?”

“I am nearing the end. But I must return. Severus . . . he must be the one to do it . . . Harry, put your cloak back on.” He offered his arm, and they left the shell of a Horcrux behind.

Back in the manor, a firestorm had begun to swirl around Voldemort, forcing everyone back. Harry turned to see members of the D.A. Apparate into the foyer just as members of the Ministry appeared. Voldemort and his followers were outnumbered two to one.

It was too loud to hear, but Tonks ran up to the group and explained something to them, gesturing to the other room. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand and bent over; Ron’s face went deathly pale. Kingsley Shacklebolt charged past, with Bill and Molly Weasley close behind. Draco looked like he wanted to run.

With a great wave of his wand, Dumbledore extinguished the fire surrounding Voldemort, filling the room with smoke.

Bellatrix reached to help Voldemort stand, but he shoved her away. Before he could steady himself for another attack, however, Snape touched his wand to Dumbledore’s chest, and after saying something unintelligible, a flash of green light sparked between them, and Dumbledore collapsed, dead, into his arms. A flurry of cries rose from the room, and all the spells they aimed at Snape collided in the air. He had Disapparated with Dumbledore’s dead body.

Harry felt as though the curse had cut through his own body. Voldemort cackled with triumph, turning to look around the room. “It’s over. And you all are trapped . . .”

“ENOUGH!” Harry took off his cloak and pushed to the front of the crowd.

Sounds of relief and anguish were pierced by Voldemort’s enraged cry, which sent those closest to him flying.

Shouts of “NO, HARRY!” and “DON’T DO IT!” rung in Harry’s ears, but he ignored them and raised his wand.

“There are no more Horcruxes. It’s just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives . . .” Harry reveled in this, a calm resulting from the assurance that the end was near.

“And you think you will survive, then? You no longer have Albus Dumbledore to protect you.”

“It doesn’t matter. Even if I die—someone else will kill you. Anyone could kill you.”

“But for whatever reason, it was meant to be you. You—the weak little boy who survived by accident, who can count his successes solely because of aid from others!”

“Was it an accident when my mother died to save me? An accident that the prophecy knew I would be able to defeat you?”

Voldemort’s thin mouth curled into a smile. “Your naiveté amuses me, Potter. You think you have defeated me, but you merely made it easier for me to defeat you . . .”

“I’m glad you can have a last laugh. Because you have no idea that I’ve been planning this for ages. Draco Malfoy helped me, after everything you did to force him to fight your battle, to make his father pay.” On an impulse, he added, “His mother helped, too.”

“The Malfoys are a weak, pitiful family, and they will face consequences for their betrayal! Please continue, tell me everyone who turned against me; I will have to weed the garden before creating my new world order. With Albus Dumbledore now dead, it will be easy.”

Harry grit his teeth. “Dumbledore was going to die because of Gaunt’s ring and Hufflepuff’s cup. He asked Snape to kill him. You trusted Snape, but he was loyal to Dumbledore ever since that night you killed my parents. He loved my mother, so he vowed to protect me.”

Voldemort’s eyes flared with anger. “It matters not. Dumbledore can no longer protect the wizarding world, and Snape fled before I could learn of his deception. There are still Death Eaters who are loyal to me. First, we will take the Ministry, and then more will join our ranks.”

“Loyalty based on fear is not the same as loyalty based on love.”

_“Love? Again?”_ Voldemort’s mouth twisted even more. “Ah, Dumbledore’s favorite cure: love, the force above magic, the thing that has been the downfall of weaker witches and wizards for centuries. Love is a distraction, it is weakness—”

From somewhere in the crowd, a green jet of light hit Voldemort square in the chest. He toppled over, reduced to a mere husk. 

A frenzy broke out as the crowd turned to see who cast the spell—but despite their curiosity, a ripple of joy overwhelmed any confusion, and the group, renewed, tried to capture panicked Death Eaters before they Disapparated. As the chaos lessened, save random shouts throughout the nearby rooms, people rushed to praise Harry. He withstood their words in dull shock, euphoria and loss hitting him in waves.

“Harry!”

He turned around, and seeing Ron and Hermione’s teary-eyed faces forced him to process everything that happened. “It’s over.” The three of them embraced, half-laughing, half-crying.

“You were bloody brilliant,” said Ron, voice cracking along with his smile.

“So you destroyed the Horcruxes, without any problems?”

“Er, I think all of us had a bit of a close call. Really, we were lucky for the Felix Felicis. Is it true you died?”

“I’ll explain everything later. Who do you think killed Voldemort, though?”

“I dunno.” Ron scratched his head; somehow, he looked more disheveled than either of them. “You don’t suppose it was one of his own, do you?”

“Maybe. Speaking of, have you seen Malfoy?”

“I thought I saw him with his mother. Some of the Order were helping them repair damage and get people to St. Mungo’s. We didn’t really need his help, I imagined to pawn him off on Ginny.”

At the mention of St. Mungo’s, Harry’s euphoria broke. “Has anyone died?”

Hermione touched his arm. “Mad-Eye Moody. Two Death Eaters, one person from the Ministry, I don’t know their names. There weren’t many people to begin with, though. Look, Harry, far more people could have died. You saved countless lives.”

“Yeah, mate, there’s no reason to feel guilty.”

Harry knew if one of Ron’s family members had died, he wouldn’t have said that so easily. Rather than start an argument, he said, “I’m going to see if the Order could use any help.”

“Alright. Meet us back in a half hour,” said Ron, “and we’ll Apparating back to the Burrow.”

The Burrow. That was what Harry wanted most now, to feel as though he had a family to come back to, a place where he could feel normal and loved. 

Before he found the Order, he spotted Draco, who stood in the corner of the ballroom, watching as Narcissa engaged in a tense conversation across the room with a few people from the Ministry. Catching Harry’s eye, he approached in quick strides, stitched brows relaxing as he approached.

Draco grinned as he reached Harry. “You’re alive.”

“And you’re free.” Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, his vice-like grip acknowledged by a weak pat on the back.

When Harry released his hold, Draco clutched his sides, moaning. “For Merlin’s sake, Potter, you nearly succeeded where the Dark Lord failed.” He was trying to hide his giddiness but it snuck out in the rush of his words. “Someone so small shouldn’t wield that much power.”

“Small? You’ve barely got two inches on me. Anyhow, you could at least thank me.”

“Right. I would say we’re even, seeing as you didn’t kill the Dark Lord yourself, I risked my life to help you . . . Speaking of, that was quite—er, what you said back there—and my mother—”

“Harry!”

Draco glanced at someone behind Harry; after spotting the source of the voice, he walked away with a sort of grimace, passing a very tearful Molly as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter illustration image description: Digital illustration. A close-up of a single eye with a red, snake-like iris. Scales pepper the area around the eye. In the iris, there is the reflection of a green burst of light and sketchy silhouettes of people.


	18. Discretion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With life suddenly free of the looming threat of Voldemort, Harry now gets to choose how to live. That doesn't mean it'll be easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by social distancing. Social distancing: the reason I can finally get an update schedule together, lol. Chapter illustration image description at the end of the chapter.

The next week at the Burrow was the best of Harry’s life so far. Had he not had time to process Dumbledore’s impending death, the loss would have struck him much more harshly. And, for a year, he’d only spent time with copies of Ron and Hermione. Perhaps it was twisted, but mourning brought him closer to them. Although the peace he felt was interrupted by a group of reporters every day, it was hardly more than a mild nuisance. If anything, having to relive the war’s events and explain his experience helped him move past his shock. When he was interviewed as part of a group, he learned what the others felt without dwelling on trauma or tragedy in their free time. That said, it was emotionally draining, and certain lines of questions made Harry tired and irritable.

“What do you think your parents would say about what you’ve done, if they were alive?”

“I dunno. They’d be proud, I suppose, though there were so many people who played a part who deserve recognition.”

“Do you believe what Severus Snape told the Ministry about the murder of Albus Dumbledore?”

“Again—I’ve spoken about this already—Voldemort nearly killed Dumbledore, but he asked Snape to end his life so Voldemort couldn’t.”

He tried to limit how often he spoke about Draco unless the reporters asked him directly. “Can you explain how Narcissa and Draco Malfoy decided to turn against You-Know-Who?”

“They realized they weren’t on the winning side and wanted to ensure Voldemort went down. Ever since Voldemort made Malfoy a Death Eater and threatened Lucius Malfoy’s life, Narcissa wanted to do what was best for her family.”

“How do you know, exactly? Have you spoken to the Malfoys?”

“I’ve talked to Draco, not his parents, no.”

“When did you and Draco Malfoy patch things up? You were rivals at Hogwarts, were you not?”

“Er . . .”

Reporters for the _Prophet_ probably knew who Rita Skeeter’s source had been during the Triwizard Tournament, seeing as they pushed him on questions on Draco, which was usually when Hermione or one of the Weasleys swooped in to change the subject.

Hermione was asked questions about Muggleborn issues, which were on the whole well intentioned, but got old quickly.

“What changes in Muggleborn rights do you expect to see now that You-Know-Who is dead?”

“I hope that people who were tempted by You-Know-Who’s rhetoric will recognize the real harm caused by blood purism.” She had clearly spent a lot of time considering how best to explain her thoughts to people who may feel indifferent, since her tone was steady and even. “Muggleborns were not the ones plotting to systematically oppress people, the Death Eaters were—actually, _are_ , because I’m sure this isn’t the end of them, or others like them.”

Ron was often overlooked in these interviews. His annoyance about this would typically fade by the evening, when everyone was together. Because of the bitter winter weather, those staying at the Burrow preferred to stay indoors and spend time talking, drinking. Overall, no one—except Molly, perhaps—felt more grateful for the company than Harry did. Years of living under the Dursleys, followed by over six years with Voldemort on his trail, followed by a year trapped in the same day, all with the fate of the wizarding world resting on him; he could now spend the remainder of his years living a normal life.

“Normal” did not mean _ordinary_ and _oppressive_ like it did to the Dursleys, to him it really meant _free_ and _balanced_ —the Weasley brand of normal, with concern for the everyday more than for the overall safety of the world. Their family, though incomplete, felt like it could be his own.

Charlie and Bill returned home for a couple days, making Percy’s absence even more obvious. He wasn’t the only missing Weasley, though; Fred and George had been far too busy in the shop to come home. Apparently, following the second and final death of Voldemort, the wizarding community from across the continent flocked to their shop. Despite the fact that celebrations marking the end of Voldemort’s first rise to power were ultimately premature, celebrations marking the end of his second reign were just as lively. And lively celebrations required fireworks.

After working a few long days in Diagon Alley, the twins left early so they could join the family for the weekend. As a surprise, they put together a fireworks display beyond what Harry imagined possible.

As a scarlet dragon soared into the air, Ron put his arms around Hermione and him, gazing up at the sky as though it offered complete peace. It was then that Harry understood why it meant so much for him to be with the Weasleys; Voldemort’s fall meant so much to _them_ , if not more; it had been a part of their lives for longer. 

The end-of-war euphoria shifted something between the two. Before the time loop, Harry had been bracing himself for them getting together without really being aware he was doing it.

One morning, Hermione made coffee for herself and Ron, placing a mug beside him as he slouched groggily at the dining table. Once the mug was nearly empty and the rest of the family were sitting down for breakfast, Ron sat up with a jolt and looked at Hermione. “Thank you for the coffee! You, er, remembered the way I liked it.”

“Oh, it was really no trouble,” she replied, though Harry could tell she’d been waiting to see if he noticed. She and Ron smiled at each other for a bit too long, and after that, he made a point to make both of them coffee each morning.

Over the course of the week, Molly’s eyes strayed occasionally to the pair whenever they lingered close to one another, or when Ron touched Hermione’s arm under some flimsy pretense (excuse me, hey, can you pass the—, g’morning, g’night).

Ginny sensed this shift, too, smirking at Harry if they ever noticed some flirtation or awkwardness at the same time. She also sensed that there was something different between her and Harry. His attempts to be subtle—shifting away if she came too close, not looking at her for too long—were meant to avoid seeming romantically interested in her.

One night, Ginny cornered him in the bathroom as he was brushing his teeth. “Will you just tell me what happened? Merlin, you’ve been dodging me like I have dragonpox.”

“W’you mean?” he asked, spitting into the sink.

“You’ve been acting weird around me.”

“Yeah. About that.” He was going to have to tell her eventually. “In the loop, we may have kissed a few times.”

“Oh.”

“And I don’t want to lead you on now because I sort of fancy someone else.”

“Wait, so how did we kiss? Oh, god, did I kiss you and you didn’t—”

“I fancied you,” he blurted out.

“Oh. Past tense?”

“I fancied you for a year and a half. Close to two years, I think. I couldn’t do anything about it because you were with Dean, and even though I found out you had feelings for me, I was in the loop . . .”

“Hey. It’s okay. I’m glad you told me.” She was difficult to look at in her pajamas, her damp hair loose over her shoulders, shampoo scent wafting over to him as though it were enchanted to taunt him. “Can I ask what changed? It’s not like I have a few spare months to get over you. Is it . . . is it because of Ron?”

“Oh, no, it’s got nothing to do with him. Er, only a little to do with him. I wish I could explain it, but I don’t think I’m ready to tell you who I fancy now. I promise I will, I just—want to see where it goes first.”

“Fair enough.” She hugged him. “I got the message, you don’t have to act cold toward me. I don’t want things to be weird between us now.”

“Me neither.” His heart was beating faster. “Ron doesn’t know I liked you, though I think Hermione figured it out, so can you hold off saying anything about it in front of him yet?”

“Oh, you don’t want him to know? I was planning on running to his room right now . . . he’s not lectured me in a few weeks, I’ve kind of missed it.” She separated herself from him, and he willed himself to act as though her pull on him had entirely diminished. “Do they know who you fancy?”

“No, and I’m sure they’ll react poorly when I tell them, so knowing I used to fancy you would make it worse.”

Ginny nodded, and Harry could tell the question burned in her.

* * *

If he had known what the first day back at Hogwarts would be like, Harry would have stayed in bed. Everywhere he went, people thanked him for defeating Voldemort. Students he had never before spoken to hugged him, and those who had resented him in the past now waved at him in the corridor. The Slytherins who had returned to school were mostly younger, acting decently enough, while there were few Slytherins above fourth year. Draco, Blaise, and Daphne were the only sixth-year Slytherins back, and they stuck together from breakfast on, along with Daphne’s sister Astoria.

Although Harry was only able to see him from far away, Draco already looked healthier. He ate all of his lunch, even licking his fingers after, and smiled a few times during his conversation. When the others weren’t looking, he pulled something out of his pocket and put it on the floor. A few moments later, Harry heard the _shiff_ of paper at his feet, and picked up a small note that read “Astronomy Tower. Eight o’clock. —D.M.”

Harry looked up and nodded at him once, mirroring his attempts to be discreet. In reality, he sat numb at the force with which the unknown surrounded him. Whatever happened that night with Draco would be permanent. No negotiation, no chance to say something better. Somehow, he wasn’t nervous. He guessed it had to do with knowing Draco would be far more nervous than him. Conversation with Ron and Hermione awkwardly started and stopped as he kept imagining possible scenarios for the evening. Rather than try to rustle up some excuse about adjusting to new time mechanics, he periodically yawned to seem tired.

On their way back from lunch, a voice behind them said, “Mr. Potter.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder, then told Ron and Hermione to go ahead without him.

McGonagall, newly appointed to headmaster, nodded shortly at him. “I trust you enjoyed your time off?”

“Yes, I did, thank you.”

“I recognize that this is in short notice, however, I wished to ask you to speak at dinner tonight about the loss of Albus and Alastor. Prior to your piece, I will speak, so be prepared to adjust as you see fit according to how I addressed the students.”

Perfect, a distraction. Obsessing over a speech for the rest of the day would stop him obsessing over a boy. At least, in theory. In practice, writing the speech took forever because his thoughts strayed to whether Draco planned to reject him, or kiss him, or profess his undying love. Probably not the latter. Even with Hermione’s generous editing, his daydreaming resulted in a speech that was more emotional than anticipated, half directed to the student body, half directed to Draco.

McGonagall spoke first, briefly. “Good evening, students, staff, and faculty. Thank you all for returning to Hogwarts after a turbulent week. I have been busy myself, contacting families and ensuring my transition to headmistress does not disrupt life here for all of you.

“I would ask to refrain from making assumptions as to why some students are absent. No student has been barred from returning, and there are multiple reasons families have elected to keep their children at home. Although the immediate threat to our safety has gone, I have to ask each and every one of you to remain alert. Look out for one another, and please respect Hogwarts rules, as they have been instated for your safety. Finally, you will all still have exams, though due to your week off so close to the exam period, they will be open book when possible.”

There were some groans, but they quickly abated at McGonagall’s glare. “Now, I want you all to give your complete attention to Mr. Potter.”

Harry went up to the podium and cleared his throat. “Hello, everyone.” Hermione had argued with him over _good evening_ versus _hello_ for twenty minutes. “Er, I hope you all had a restful week away. I know you probably read about what happened at Malfoy Manor in the papers; that’s only part of what I wanted to talk about.” His eyes traveled from Hagrid, who struggled to stifle his sobs, to Snape, whose eyes may have been glassy, unless it was merely the glint of candlelight.

“Voldemort was defeated because of the efforts of a few brave students—they know who they are. Draco Malfoy was in on the plan.”

Everyone turned to Draco, whose smile ended up looking more like a grimace.

“We knew that attacking Voldemort would be risky, which is why we launched a surprise attack. Voldemort— _Tom Riddle_ was mortal. The magic he used to prolong his life came at a price. His life was empty, destructive. Rather than remember him by the name he used to stoke fear, or let him survive as an unspeakable legend, he should be called by the name he tried to rid himself of—Tom Riddle. In the end, he died as a man deserving of pity or hate, not respect or fear. His life is an unfortunate reminder that anyone can be capable of evil. Let his desire for power go unfulfilled. Albus used his abilities for good and, despite his shortcomings, will be remembered most for his contributions to medicine and magical knowledge. His legacy is life, not death. That is the legacy we should all strive for. Riddle, on the other hand, was so averse to love that he leaves behind only death, followers who fear him; and no heir, nothing positive except hope that the world can be better.”

Harry couldn’t tell if he was making sense anymore. Hermione and Ron were easy to read, both nodding or giving a tight-lipped smile, whereas Draco’s face was severe in his concentration.

“Anyhow—with everyone gathered here, I can’t help but think of Cedric Diggory. When he died, it seemed as though no one was safe. That lives would be taken as though they meant nothing. And we gathered here, in the Great Hall, when nothing was fair and the past shouldn’t have repeated itself. We were on the brink of another war. But we had Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody. Without them, we would not have taken down Riddle when we did. At the very least, they prevented more innocent lives from being taken. They put themselves at risk so we could have peace.”

Harry had to read from what he’d written now, making it seem more performative than he’d wanted. Hopefully what he said came across as sincere. “To those who want a name for themselves, or who want to survive at any cost, or who love someone enough to do anything to protect them, remember Albus, and Alastor, and Tom. Remember being unknown is better than causing enough harm that others wish you had never existed. Remember that acting for the common good but being disliked is better than being admired by a select few. Maintain some doubt about your actions rather than forcing your will on people. Above all else, appreciate the people in your life while they are still around. If there’s someone you’ve been waiting to tell how you feel, or if you’ve been putting your friendships aside, or whatever, come to terms with what is most important in your life. It won’t just make a difference for you.” Harry looked up from his speech. “Er, thank you.” If the applause weren’t so loud, he would have apologized for preaching to everyone. When he sat down, Ron patted him on the back, though he was looking at Hermione. “Good job, you two.”

Harry exhaled in relief and said, “Thank you, Hermione.”

“You’re welcome.” Her eyes had narrowed a bit—puzzling through something, maybe—before Ginny nudged her to talk about the speech.

That evening, upon climbing the winding steps to the top of the tower, Harry found Draco already there, standing at the balcony. He took off his cloak and cleared his throat.

Draco started and looked over his shoulder. “Hello, Potter.”

“Hey, Draco.”

“Nice speech tonight. It was . . . moving.” Was Draco already blushing?

“Er, thank you. Have you been here long?”

Draco merely shrugged, staring out over the castle grounds.

“How are you, then?”

“Fine.”

“You look loads better.” Judging by Draco’s barely concealed pride, he knew it, too. “Your father . . . were you able to see him?”

“Mother and I visited him at the Ministry, where he’s being kept temporarily. All things considered, I’m fine. Relieved. Things can only improve. The Ministry will likely track down remaining Death Eaters, and there are more trials to take place, and the government must regroup, I assume, so things are starting to look up for my family—” At the expression on Harry’s face, he added, “Er, but yes, now there is no one threatening to kill me. For now. So, thank you.”

“Modesty suits you.”

Draco frowned, eyes narrowed. “Don’t get too accustomed to it. I can only hope our actions will absolve my family of our . . . unsavory past. At least, of my past. The Ministry’s view of my father may remain tainted. If he gets parole, it won’t be for forever, given all of the information he can provide the government.”

Harry believed in second chances. He had to believe Lucius could be better without excusing his past actions, or he would be a hypocrite for his changed judgement of Draco and Severus. “Do you think he’ll regret supporting You-Know-Who? And not just because you all suffered from it?”

“I . . . don’t know. There is a lot I thought I understood, and now . . . once he’s released, we have a lot to talk about, my father and I.”

“About whether he’s still keen on being a blood purist?”

“It’s so like you to oversimplify things.”

The stores of patience Harry had built up over the brief holiday were running low. “It’s so like you to overcomplicate things.” He itched to make a comment about balancing each other out, but Draco seemed ready to pounce on any comment he made.

“Overcomplicating . . . How about this then, I don’t want to meet you in public. The secret room should suffice until tensions have eased between our houses before we see each other again. Or is that that too complicated?”

“You mean the Room of Requirement? And for what?”

A light flush crept up Draco’s neck. “You tell me.”

“Oh, so now you think I’m telling the truth about how I feel?”

“I simply—have a hard time believing you, despite everything.”

“Believing that I fancy you?”

Draco scoffed. “What else, Potter? Surely you can understand my skepticism.”

“I do, but . . .” Harry frowned, staring at Draco’s flexing fingers. “Surely there’s a reason your Amortentia smelled like me.”

Draco turned abruptly toward him. “You—the scent I failed to recognize—” He glanced around before stepping closer to Harry. “Turn around.”

Harry did so, taken aback at how readily he did as Draco told. Nerves scattered from Draco’s fingertips, causing his whole body tot tense.

“The scent matches.”

“Right, so that was the most, er, concrete proof I had.” Harry turned back to face Draco, who took a step back to restore the distance between them.

Draco ran a hand reflexively over his sleek hair. “I have thought about it the past week, and I do not believe this has been a phase for very long. I was never conscious of any . . . feelings. At the most, I thought I was confused.”

“But you still . . . you know, in the girls’ bathroom. And when you were disguised as Ginny. What you saw when you used Legilimency.”

“I did that of my own free will?”

“Er, yeah.” The idea of making Draco do anything he didn’t want to do filled Harry with disgust. “Both times, I told you I fancied you, and spent a long time explaining everything. And as Ginny, you tried to get information out of me, but I knew it was just you in disguise, and you kissed me then, too. ”

“Ah. And now I have no memory of this.” Draco furrowed his brow, visibly struggling to decide how he felt.

“I may as well tell you that for the time in the Astronomy Tower, I used Amortentia. But, er, that was just a month and a half into the loop, and I didn’t think you’d, you know . . .”

The pink in Draco’s cheeks deepened. “You are quite thick, aren’t you? What did you think it would do?”

“We’re the same sex! I had no thought about people who might . . . it just never occurred to me.”

Draco sighed, rubbing his temple. “Seeing as your obliviousness knows no bounds, and you have been honest with me—albeit pitifully so—I will explain my experience. Just don’t—don’t take it as a confession, or weakness, and certainly do not presume it means anything.”

Harry bit his tongue and nodded.

“I only remembered recently, but after our first year at Hogwarts, I told our house-elf about you. At eleven, I’m sure I had less discretion about what I told him. He made a comment—I can’t recall what it was—and I punished him. And afterwards, I repressed what I felt. My hatred for you intensified.”

“I don’t understand. What did you tell Dobby?”

“Something—I can’t remember specifically—that he twisted around. He thought, because of what I said, I would want to help save your life. This was despite the fact I had described loathing you on numerous occasions, and yet . . . Anyhow, it’s not important. Will you let me finish? You rejected my offer of friendship in our first year and hated me first. I know now it never would have worked—being friends with the war going on—but it was our opposing roles and beliefs that divided us, not our personalities. You refused to admire me, or see me as a true adversary, and that only intensified my obsession. Better to hate you than to admit I was misled, or misleading myself. So you can see, now, why I hated you was not so straightforward . . .”

Harry chewed this over. Draco had danced around any concrete truths, leaving him bewildered. When he had the chance, there were plenty of specifics to work out, but for now—“ _Hated_ me? Past tense?”

“Now there is no point. You can profoundly annoy me, and I can’t seem to shake my lingering resentment, but . . .” Draco trailed off, studying Harry. “Despite everything, this is still not worth it. I appreciate everything you did to help me, but—just look, I have been constantly anxious someone will walk in on us and get the wrong idea!” He flinched at the change in Harry’s expression and looked away. “Besides, you can fancy girls, and I am sure if I try—”

“You’re a coward, Malfoy.” Harry’s tone surprised them both. “I hope you realize you’ve just gone from being a Death Eater, going along with your family, to this, denying who you’re attracted to, and for what? To avoid embarrassment?”

“So you would be fine out in the public.”

Harry faltered. “Well, not exactly.”

“Why should I have expected you would be fine being discreet? Gryffindors are all prideful, risk-taking, and brash, so you concealing something like this seems antithetical to your House.”

Harry scoffed. “If we’re going by generalizations, I see how you’d prefer sneaking about; Slytherins are all about strategy, tact, and burying their emotions.”

“You’re oversimplifying things again.”

“And you’re not?”

“Fair enough. You always did seem more like a Slytherin than a Gryffindor, anyhow.”

“Oh, I’ve seen your common room three times now, I really would not have wanted to live there. It’s got no warmth! Maybe I could smuggle you into the Gryffindor common room. I have the invisibility cloak, you know.”

“Imagine explaining that to Weasley and Granger. A part of me would want to see the look on their faces . . .”

“Er, I may want to tell them how I feel, though. About us.”

“Oh.”

“Only if they swear to keep it a secret.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“If I tell them, there’s a chance they’ll forgive you. Or at least stop hating you.”

“Just them?”

“To start, then, and if it ever becomes relevant, the friends I have who know about the time loop. Ginny and Luna. They’d understand enough to keep it quiet.”

“Yeah. Fine. Tell them if you have to. There’s little to tell, anyhow.”

With the swelling in his chest, the bright light of the sunset lighting their skin on fire, Harry agreed: how could he possibly put his feelings into words? After facing death, he was happy to be alive. The strands of hair hitting his face from the wind used to bother him, and now he appreciated the sensation.

For what could have been two or twenty minutes, they were silent, looking out over the grounds. Well, Draco was looking over the grounds, and Harry kept sneaking glances at him. He wanted to cement it all in his memory, how the sun washed out the remaining lines of stress from Draco’s face, the faintly annoyed expression that meant he was thinking. His eyelashes—

“Do you really enjoy looking at me that much?” said Draco, catching him mid-stare.

“Yes? I’m sorry if I’m bothering you.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s just that you’re quite nice to look at.” _What an idiotic way to say that, can you even call that a compliment?_

Draco shrugged this off as though a fly had buzzed by his ear. “It’s getting late. If we want to make curfew . . .”

“Right, yeah.”

As they faced each other, there was a long moment that Harry was sure indicated he should move closer, kiss him, but Draco merely nodded once as if to say “Goodnight” and went down the stairs.

Keeping secrets was easy for Harry, as he thought having his private life spouted all over the media was disconcerting, so by instinct he could refrain from preaching about his relationship (or whatever he ought to call it).

Keeping secrets from Ron and Hermione was another thing. Now that Voldemort was dead, now that he waited a year for time to begin again and for the world to be real, how could he stand to keep anything significant from his best friends?

It was when he reached the portrait hole that he began to lose his resolve.

Hermione spotted Harry first, worried expression relaxing as she walked over to him. “Where’ve you been? Ron said you took the cloak and the map, we were going to look for you.”

“About that . . . can we talk in private?” He looked around the common room and saw that Neville, Dean, and Seamus were all there. “Up in the boys’ dorm?”

Hermione nodded and went to Ron. He could barely remember them going up to the dorm room; he wasn’t even sure if he looked at their faces.

_Once I tell them, I can’t take it back._

Harry felt as though he wasn’t in his body, but he was aware of his bed, and how close Ron and Hermione were to him. “I have to tell you two something. It’s probably the last thing you’d expect, and I didn’t want to tell you before the battle because it would’ve made things weird, and I didn’t want to be in the middle of a row with you in case we were killed.”

“Alright, what is it then?” Ron’s naiveté seeped into the air like a fog, disrupting Harry’s thoughts. In a sudden rush of shame, Harry wanted to back out, say something else, because whatever he said next would change everything, and surely for the worse. It was stupid, risking friendship just so he could feel more fully understood.

“You know how Draco gave me information on Voldemort?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Well, the things I did to get the information—I—see, it’s very complicated, but—” Harry clasped his hands together to keep from fidgeting. He at least had enough courage for the first part of the confession. “I had only realized it while I was in the time loop. Looking back, I think I just ignored it, I mean, as a kid, I was used to being the odd one out, and I didn’t realize I was a wizard until I was eleven, for Merlin’s sake, and even then it was Hagrid who told me—”

“Harry, it’s okay.” Hermione smiled through tightly pressed lips at him, eyes shining.

“You know what I’m going to say?”

Hermione shrugged. “I . . . hadn’t thought much of it, at the battle, I assumed I imagined it. I saw you and—you were hugging. And then what you said in your speech, or how you said it, or _who_ you looked at, it made me wonder . . .”

“What is it?” Ron was annoyed now, two times over, at Hermione’s sympathetic expression toward Harry and his lack of understanding.

“I’m bisexual.” Harry avoided both of their expressions, unwilling to see what he assumed was Hermione’s conflicted triumph that she had guessed correctly and Ron’s slack-jawed bewilderment. He had confessed to them before, but now, however they reacted would be permanent.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Ron appeared partly amused, partly apprehensive.

“It means I can be attracted to both sexes.” Harry turned to Hermione, whose eyes followed his as though she expected him to cry at any moment. “Is that what you expected?”

Hermione hesitated. “Nearly, but _both?”_

“How’s that possible?” Ron had trouble enunciating.

“I dunno, I just—I had to explain it to you in the time loop, too. Apparently I’m not the only one. My mum was, and Remus is, he told me—”

“But what about your dad?”

Harry knew he was letting them get off track but couldn’t help giving in to the tangent. “He knew how Lily was, he was okay with it, with Sirius, too. Actually, Remus and Sirius were together.”

_“They were?”_ Ron and Hermione gawked at him.

“I was shocked, too, but after a few weeks I started to understand—”

“It does make sense, looking back.”

Ron turned his gaping expression to Hermione. “What in Merlin’s name makes sense about that?”

“They were very close, weren’t they? Remus lived at Grimmauld Place before he died, they were best friends in school—”

_“Friends,_ Hermione. There’s nothing—living together—you wouldn’t jump to conclusions like that if you were a bloke!”

“Ron, you’re being rather close-minded about this. It’s not affecting you, is it?”

“Harry’s my best mate!” Ron protested weakly.

“I’m right here,” said Harry, “and I have no idea how long it will take you to get over yourself, but I’m not going to change, so don’t bother expecting that.”

“I’m not asking you to change. I don’t even know what I’d want you to change from! I just—this is—explain it again. So you like blokes the same way you like girls?”

“It’s not the same, exactly. I don’t feel the same, er, kind of attraction. But if you mean I’ve wanted to be with both sexes, in a sense, then you’re right.”

“So you got this from your mum?” Apparently, Ron wanted to abandon his previous line of questioning.

“Maybe. I haven’t found any research on how it’s passed down. I don’t think anyone really knows. And regardless, there isn’t a point in knowing.” He considered adding, _There’s no fixing it_ , but “fixing” was the wrong word, because he wouldn’t want to change himself, even if he could. Perhaps it was better if he didn’t know whether it was possible.

“How did you realize, Harry?”

He could tell Hermione was trying to extend an olive branch, and perhaps because she read into his hug with Draco, she at least wouldn’t be surprised. “If I tell you,” he addressed Ron now, “it’ll only make things worse.”

Ron was shaking his head, repeating the movement for too long, as though shooing away a bad dream. “You have to tell us. I mean, I want you to explain it.”

Harry covered his face with his hands and sighed. “I-I developed feelings for Malfoy.”

Silence resonated in the room, and Harry didn’t dare look, until—

“Yeah right.” Ron started to laugh. “Of all people. That would be a riot . . .” He noticed Hermione’s worried expression, Harry’s fidgeting hands. “No. Tell me you’re not serious.”

Harry said nothing.

“It’s not funny anymore, Harry.” Ron stood up. “Hermione, did you know about this?”  
“They arrived at the Hog’s Head together, and I-I saw them hug after the battle, I thought maybe I was—I wasn’t sure—”

Ron’s face turned a ghastly red color. “What happened to you? The time loop did something, it messed with your head.”

“Ron, I lived the same day over again for a year. I can explain everything that led to this—”

“You’re not joking.” Ron turned helplessly to Hermione, who was tried to deescalate the brewing feud by asking, “Has he changed, then, Harry? Is that how this is possible?”

“He fancied me before the time loop, sort of.”

_“Malfoy fancied—?”_

“And I obviously didn’t realize this, but I think I might’ve felt the same way, a part of me that was twisted, confused. You’ve seen how obsessed I was with him. And then over time, as the months passed . . . But yes, he has changed. He wants to change.”

Ron cut in again. “So you’ll excuse him for being a coward, a knobhead, a murderous, big-headed little sod, just for switching sides _when it was easy?”_

Harry stood. “How can you say you’d be on the right side if your family were all Death Eaters?”

“That doesn’t matter! I wouldn’t want you to be _friends_ with me if I were a Death Eater, let alone—”

“He’s only a teenager, Ron, like us.” Hermione got to her feet as well, so that the three of them stood, glaring at each other. “If we don’t accept people who want to be better, how can we expect anyone to change?” 

“Maybe he doesn’t want to change! Maybe he’s only after Harry, because—because—!”

Harry could no longer hold his temperament. “How the hell would you know, Ron? _You haven’t given him a chance!”_

Ron scoffed, his gaze cold, visibly finding Harry’s words too bizarre to process. “What, so Malfoy’s told you he wants to be friends with us, has he?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Exactly my point! This is mental, Harry. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re blinded.”

“You’re one to talk!”

Hermione was holding back tears. “Ron, go get some air.”

“You’re siding with him, then? You don’t think he’s being thick? Or—or that he’s under some curse? Bloody hell, Hermione.”

“I’m not taking sides! I’ll come with you, then, if it’ll stop you from saying something you’ll regret.” Hermione forced Ron out, shooting a final sympathetic glance in Harry’s direction before closing the door behind them.

Harry sat down on his bed. He felt perfectly numb, as though he had never felt anything and would never feel anything again—friendship, love, pain, stress. He stared at the bed directly across from him, the room so silent he could hear his heart, and then Ron’s words reverberated back at him: _You’re blinded._

How long had he agonized over the possibility that he’d lost his senses, only to have Ron shove it back in his face? He knew Ron would react negatively, he was under no illusion that his confession would’ve been received with a congratulatory hug or even something along the lines of “give me time to process.”

Once the anger had passed and he felt empty again, Harry understood what stripped the emotion from him: the unknown. He never had to worry about Ron staying friends with him when he tried this before, since he knew time would reset. In their past they shared a fair deal of silent treatments, arguments, and miscommunications about things out of Harry’s control and the choices he made, but this felt bigger. Like it could be the final straw.

Now, Harry was certain he seemed unrecognizable to his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter illustration image description: Digital illustration. Formatted like a meme. In all four panels, there is a close-up of a perplexed, calculating Ron surrounded by complex mathematic equations. Each of his expressions is only slightly different than the last, with a set of different equations in the second, third, and fourth panels.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you're able, I'd appreciate your feedback :)


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